


Save

by InkyKinky



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Cancer, Drug Use, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Journalist, M/M, Minor Character Death, POV Alternating, POV Multiple, Pregnancy, Slow Burn, anxiety attack, exploring the concept of family, field journalism, focus on the main characters' relationships between each other, jeanmarco, journalists abroad, sometimes it's not quite clear/it shifts a lot/is a mixture of everything and nothing at once, which may or may not be friendly/platonic and/or romantic/sexual
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-02-27 10:19:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 30,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2689208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkyKinky/pseuds/InkyKinky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marco's life could have been so perfect if there hadn't been his co-worker Jean, his pregnant flatmate whose boyfriend just left, and <i>the job offer.</i> Soon, everything goes downhill, faster than he would have anticipated, and no one can say for sure how much could be saved.</p><p>_____<br/>[Archive warnings & tags might be added as the story proceeds]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Oh Dear Life

**Author's Note:**

> The idea came when I took a shower, and ever since I don't trust my shower brain anymore. This is going to be a rather big fic, and I am hopeful that this also will be actually one I'll finish (I can't promise it, but I'm 85% sure.)
> 
> I hope you enjoy it nonetheless. (Not to spoil you but it has a romantic happy ending, so no worries - though drama definitely occures and not just a little.)
> 
> ***  
> My [tumblr](http://inkykinky.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/inky_thoughts)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can face it just about  
> I'd rather hurt than live without  
> But I will rage and scream and shout  
> A love, a life, it's dark and bright  
> It's beautiful and it's alright  
> \- _Nothing Stays The Same_ by Luke Sital-Singh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did a rewrite of the first chapter, and since there are some major changes/new scenes I consider it worth reading, even though you've read the rest already.

Marco remembered the swingset on the old playground, and the heat in one year making it almost unbearable. It was one of those hot summers that would fill everything with a dry daze and over-all laziness, underlined by the Western-style squealing of the swing chains in the warm breeze. It was that summer when Maggie had swung too high and fell on her back, hurting. It was that summer when Marco found a lucky penny.

_The Lucky Penny._

It wasn’t in his pocket anymore.

 

*****

 

“I hate hate _hate_ this,” Sasha mumbled as she clung herself above the toilet again. She felt sick, horribly sick, but again it wasn’t enough to vomit. At one point she wished she would, though.

Marco stroke her smaller back while pushing back her fringe like the mother-hen he was, soothing circles to keep her calm – just in case.

“It shouldn’t be you who does this.” Sasha gritted her teeth and tried to swallow her breakfast down again, leaving a sore taste in her throat. She actually didn’t want to think about it, but there she was, angry and salty, even though she should stand above this. She didn’t want to drag Marco into this, but again it was too late, as always. “It should be this arse’s job.”

“George isn’t here, is he?” Marco smiled, apologetic.

Sasha wrung a tired smirk off her lips as she rested her head on the cool porcelain. Marco threw up far too little that she could pat his back and mutter that everything’s gonna be all right.

“Mum didn’t have that,” she murmured with bitterness in her tone, “with none of us. That’s really not fair.”

“D’ya really wanna go to school today?” Marco asked, pressing his lips on her temple tenderly. Sasha sighed.

“I have to, Freckles, I have to,” she groaned and heaved herself up again.

“I’ll do groceries after lunch, anything I should get you?” Marco asked again, leaning against the door frame while Sasha prepared herself, making the look of sickness vanish from her face as well as she could.

“Nah, I think we’re–” She paused. “No wait, get me some crisps, yeah? Those with salt and vinegar, y’know.”

Marco nodded.

“All right, anything else?”

Sasha looked into her tired eyes in the mirror. This was stupid, really stupid to ask, but she needed to.

“Could you give me a ride to the gynaecologist?” she asked, worrying on her lip.

“That anxious?”

She could see Marco’s grin in the reflection. She knew it was stupid.

“Hm-hm,” she hummed, nodding, while trying to concentrate on applying her mascara without poking herself in the eye or smearing everything in her hair. That was something she needed more than those stupid crisps.

“I just can’t go alone, and I really don’t wanna go by the sub,” she tried to reason, more to herself than to Marco, “Besides, Connie said he’d be late in the office today as well, so…” She stretched the last syllable to stress how _reasonable_ this was.

“As I said, after lunch I’ll do groceries, if you wanna, I can pick you up from school.”

Sasha smiled at him thankfully, and soon they left the rather disorganized flat.

***

Marco wasn’t sure if he was obvious, but Jean was hunched over his computer anyway, furiously typing on an article that was due that afternoon, brows furrowed as always, so he probably didn’t pay attention to Marco at all. It was stupid, this entire crush of Marco’s was stupid, but he couldn’t help himself and continued glancing at his colleague across their desks. The nature of the crush he had on Jean was odd, that was all he could say, because a grown man of twenty-eight usually didn’t have a High School crush on a co-worker. Men of twenty-eight were married, or went to bars and met tipsy women, had one-night-stand after one-night-stand, or just asked their co-worker out if they were oh-so attractive. But Marco wasn’t a reasonable man of twenty-eight, he _befriended_ that sarcastic man who seemed to be born with skinny jeans and tight shirts, and now dreaded to ruin what he had built up to actually ‘just get to know’ that blunt man who shared an office with him a little more.

A rustle of paper brought him back to reality and reminded him to finally tidy up his desk that was still cluttered in too many post-its and other notes. If he was honest, this was basically all he could do today since everyone he’d called told him that before Monday, no-one would be available. Monday.

This was driving him crazy. Marco groaned.

“That bad?” Jean snickered behind his computer screen.

“I hate – I hate waiting. Like, I could do something productive but nobody lets me do shit.” Marco planted his face on his desk.

“You can write this article about the Greenwich robbery if you like.” Jean poked his tongue at him.

“I gave you the notes, like, yesterday, shouldn’t you’ve done this already?”

“Eren sent me an e-mail with a phone number – and well, I called, we got some information, more than what the police said, and yeah. Basically re-writing this stuff here,” Jean replied without even looking up.

“Oh.” Marco stared at the other man in surprise. “I’m sorry, why didn’t you tell me, I could’ve helped–”

“Tch, c’mon Marco, you have to baby-sit two madmen, and this seriously isn’t a big deal. It’s just – it’s just writing, I can do that. That’s what I’m here for.” Whiskey eyes for once left the screen and observed the freckled man in front of him. Marco rolled his eyes as a reply and leaned back in his desk chair to play down the tiny blush that spread over his cheeks.

“Still.”

“Good God, Marco! This is – just be happy that you don’t have to stress out your butt all the time, just let me do my work and I don’t know, go down and talk with that cutie in the cafeteria, just – just stop worrying and let me do my job, OK?”

Marco’s face was set aflame. _Of course_ he was annoying Jean, and yes, of course Jean was capable of doing this on his own, he wasn’t a five-year-old who needed constant spell-check. It was embarrassing as soon as Marco realised it.

“You mean Petra? – I–sorry, I constantly distract– I mean I don’t want to bother– maybe I just should get us some coffee.” Marco got up, his face burning even more, and walked to the tea kitchen at the end of their corridor. He felt horrible, how stupid a person could he be in the end?

He was the only person at the coffee machine, so no waiting until he felt less flustered – but at least nobody could ask him about what was up with him. He let his guard slip more often lately, and everything was becoming more and more awkward.

The thing was, being friends with Jean really felt comfortable, just being with him in general felt this way, but it was hard to tell where he was crossing a line between just-friends and boyfriends. Because he didn’t know what would be worse – losing their friendship, probably forever, because even if Jean wanted to be with him, the chance that it would last forever was very small, and yes, friends at least stayed. Would Jean even want to be friends with him after a break-up? Probably not. But would Jean stay if he knew?

Marco didn’t know. There were too many variables, there was no certainty.

Both coffee mugs were done by now, and Marco walked back, hopefully looking calmer now.

 

Jean perked up as Marco re-entered the room with two steaming mugs in either hand, carefully handing him the one with black coffee and an unholy amount of sugar in it.

Jean loved Marco.

Jean loved Marco, it was something he couldn’t deny and such moments actually made it only worse. Marco was too considerate for his own good, and even though Jean tried to rub it into his face as often as he could, he didn’t change. He always made people feel special, as though they mattered, as though he cared (yes, he did care, but it was hard telling whether it was this casual ‘Marco cares for everyone’ thing, or if they were, indeed, someone special.) And this nagged at Jean.

He wanted to be special to Marco, and yes, somehow he was, otherwise he wouldn’t be friends with him, but he yearned for more.

He didn’t want Marco to just be nice as he always was, he wanted him to like him so badly, but he knew he’d ruin it far too often that he really wondered why Marco still put up with him. He was a train-wreck, got horrible, horrible wet dreams of his best friend (though horrible probably was the wrong word for this, it just made him feel worthless and pathetic afterwards), and couldn’t cope. After knowing Marco for maybe a year everything started, and the guilt still settled deep.

One day, he always told himself, one day I’m going to tell him. But until this day he would cast as many glances at Marco’s cute butt when he didn’t look as possible and bite on his lip afterwards, knowing what a shitty friend he was.

“Are you alright?” Marco asked tentatively as he seated himself, trying not to spill his coffee with milk over the files.

“Hm? Yes, yes, I’m fine, I – just gotta do this.”

Marco nodded absent-mindedly and took a sip.

And suddenly, something sprung into his mind.

“Have you decided yet?” Marco asked, his voice slightly hoarse from the thought. Jean looked up.

“D’you mean –?”

Marco nodded, blindly knowing what Jean meant, not leaving his eyes from the rim of his cup. They still evaded the actual topic, even when talking about. Jean doubted it being healthy, but he just could not. Neither of them could.

“I – don’t know. I mean, my parents’ll probably kill me but –” Jean paused. “Have you?”

The other man shrugged.

“It’s not like I wouldn’t do it,” he replied, “ that’s what journalists do. I would be in the wrong place if I wasn’t ready for this. I mean, we would be back early enough so I could help Sasha with – with everything. It’s – If I won’t do it, I probably couldn’t stop calling myself a coward.”

Jean gulped.

“So if I don’t – don’t go, I’m a coward.” Jean chewed on his lip. _Yeah, probably_. That’s what he was.

An aprupt knock on the door frame announced Nanaba from the economy division, who stuck their head inside the small office room.

“Hey guys, want something for lunch?”

“No thanks, I’ll go home in an hour, but thanks!” Marco smiled at them. Jean just grunted something incomprehensible and slammed his keyboard again. Nanaba looked confused and vanished without a further word, Marco still smiling at them apologetic.

“Hell, just go, goddamn, you don’t have anything to do here anyway,” Jean muttered.

“I seriously have job, Jean, I can’t just abandon–”

“See you later, Freckles. Tell Connie I’ll get us some beer.” Jean simply ignored Marco’s objection

“Err…”

“Marco, the fuck go! You have a pregnant woman to feed!”

This made Marco finally move. A bit distressed and also scared, he collected his coat and the scarf Mikasa had make him two years ago, downed his coffee and sprinted out into the corridor, afraid of what Jean would do if he was disturbed even more.

***

Marco sat in his VW Beetle and thrummed on the steering wheel with the beat in the radio. He didn’t even know the song, something cheesy from the early 2000s maybe, as Sasha, loaded with diverse bags and rucksacks, walked through the front door of her school. She smiled as she spotted Marco, instantly throwing all her bags in the backseat as Marco opened the door for her, and she slipped inside.

“What a day,” she huffed, pulling her door shut, “I don’t remember _us_ being so noisy.”

Marco giggled.

“Well, at least the neighbours are gone for the weekend, so no noisy kids at home. We just need to put the lasagne in the oven, and the boys come around six or so.”

Sasha sighed at that thought, her eyes wandering through the car’s interior, resting on a CD Jean had given Marco for his last birthday. It was actually too cliché, but she kept that for herself.

“Marco?”

“Hm?”

“You gonna tell him once?” Sasha looked at him, and this once, he couldn’t quite read her expression. It had something desperate, something like a plea but not quite. He looked down.

“Don’t know,” he mumbled and started the engine, “not today, for sure.”

Sasha rolled her eyes and looked out of the window.

 _Not today_ , Marco repeated in his head.

 ***

Dr. Hanji was a species for themselves, Marco soon agreed, and he was convinced that he had never met a person so excited for their rather ‘experimental’ surgeries. Usually, his protective instinct would have sat Sasha back in the car and driven them somewhere else, but Sasha trusted them. She trusted them, and this was OK.

After they had cleared up that Marco was not Sasha’s boyfriend, and neither the father of the child, they went for the scan. Dr. Hanji explained a lot that was far beyond medical information of the pregnant human body, and Sasha at first shrieked as the cool gel was applied on her belly, but soon fell into a childish giggle. Sasha had grown more than Marco had anticipated.

“So, there we have the little devil,” muttered the gynaecologist while checking on the screen as their hand came to a halt, “ no wait –” they adjusted their glasses, “no my darling, that’s not one tiny devil, but two! Congrats, you’ll live in hell when the whole thing here is over!”

They grinned. They seriously grinned maliciously in excitement.

“Two?” Sasha looked at her doctor disbelievingly, “You mean, I’ve got –”

“TWINS! EXACTLY!”

Marco blinked. Was this real? He could feel an inner panic attack building up in either Sasha or himself, and unfortunately their friendship was on a level where he actually couldn’t differ anymore.

“You mean, I’ve got –” Sasha began again, eyes switching from her gynaecologist to the screen and back again, “Marco, is that real, I mean, I did not pass out or something, this is real, this is actually happening, this is not an hallucination, we did not smoke pot or anything, you didn’t give me any mushrooms, did you?”

“Nope, Sasha, this seems very real.” Marco patted the back of her hand, not quite knowing what else to do. That really was a surprise. Not that diapers weren’t very expensive, and then taking this for two babies, how would they cope with that? Would they grow up enough within the next few months that they actually could handle that, somehow with not too many catastrophes?

Marco sighed, Sasha’s eyes snapping to him, wide in panic.

“How do we manage this?” she almost whispered.

Marco shrugged.

“We’ll – we’ll manage somehow. We’ve managed Connie’s broken leg, and your stomach flues. It can’t come much worse.” He smiled at her reassuringly. This was going to be a rollercoaster ride from start to finish, but what was wrong with that?

“It’ll be worth it, Sash.” With a small squeeze of his hand he brought back a smile on her lips, at first it was insecure, but then pearls of giggles started bubbling out of their throats.

“We gonna be some shitty parents,” Sasha laughed, kissing Marco’s hand, “real shitty parents.”

“We’ll make do,” Marco grinned, “we’ll make do.”

After some more tests, they could leave, and Sasha made the next appointment at the service desk. As Marco and Sasha were back in the car, they had tears in their eyes. Marco hadn’t laughed like this in _years_.

 

The rest of the afternoon passed without any events, and Sasha was thankful for that. It was weird to know that she had a little human growing in her womb, but that it now were two was admittedly an even stranger feeling. After George left she had thought about abortion, but then again George had never felt like the legitimate father of her children anyway. She didn’t even know if she loved him, ever loved him, in all these months they’d been together. She never really knew whether she even was capable of love, romantic love. It always had felt weird when George had taken her on a date, or wanted to do the whole affectionate hand-holding or pecks in public. With long-time friends, this was different. But there it was, they were friends.

Maybe she knew all along that she would never have this loving relationship to her partners as her parents had. She had probably wished for something like that, but when her mother died, she wasn’t so certain about the whole thing anymore. She had seen the sadness in her father’s eyes, and then she was glad that it was her friends, and her friends alone who would make her shed a tear.

Sasha traced the pattern on Marco’s jumper while watching something on TV – none of them did really paid attention – as the doorbell rang and made them jump.

It was Reiner, who climbed up to the third floor with his heavy steps, a six-pack of beer in one hand, an umbrella in the other. Obviously it had started raining again.

“Hey there,” he greeted them, “others not here yet?” He unceremoniously shoved the umbrella in the bin that functioned as umbrella holder, and pushed the six-back into Marco’s arms before discarding his wet shoes at the doorstep.

“No, not yet,” Marco answered while hanging up Reiner’s jacket,“I thought you and Connie got off at the same time today?”

“Been on a conference… Didn’t see him all day.” Reiner’s forehead morphed into a frown, then he just shrugged. “Gonna come sooner or later.”

“Yeah … uh, do you think I should write Jean not to bring beer? I mean –” Marco gestured at the beer in his hand.

“Nah, if necessary I’m gonna drink that one alone.”

Everything was a bit awkward with Reiner after that, maybe because the blond sat very stiff on the sofa and didn’t make himself at home as usual. It took a while until Connie and Jean arrived, and until then they watched in silence a documentary about Maya, and Sasha was crunching her crisps.

Marco could hear a familiar snicker in the staircase just before Connie opened their flat door with a giggle, and Reiner’s posture shifted into something more comfortable, his facial expression easing up. He greeted them with his boisterous laugh and their half handshake, half hug, almost squishing the smaller men to death. Marco and Sasha just offered them a short wave.

“Should we tell them?” the latter suddenly leaned closer towards Marco, whispering.

“I don’t – I don’t know? It’s … I mean, it’s your decision, I only can tag along and hold your hand,” Marco murmured, a sympathetic smile on his lips.

“Hold my hand.” Sasha’s voice was almost inaudible, her eyes huge. Marco nodded.

“Any secrets, you two love-birds?” Reiner winked as he saw their fingers entwined, even though he actually should know better. Jean perked up from his casual conversations with Connie. Sasha just rolled her eyes.

“I’ve gotta tell you something, guys,” she said and stood up, pulling Marco with her, who wrapped an arm comforting around her shoulder.

“You two are finally fucking, oh my God, d’you know how long I’ve waited for thi–”

“Shut up, Reiner,” Marco hissed, pulling Sasha closer, “If you can’t let her talk out, leave.”

Reiner muttered something like “whatever” under his breath and let himself fall back on the couch, crossing his arms in front of his chest protectively. The tension lingered as long as Marco graced him with his cold, unapologetic glare, interrupted by Jean clearing his throat and making Marco’s eyes snap to him

“So, uhm … you wanted to – to tell us something, Sash?” His voice sounded a bit strained and hoarse, and Marco shot him a thankful smile. Sasha nodded.

“Yeah … yeah, so, you know I’m pregnant, right?” she said, squeezing Marco’s hand incredibly tight. A unison nod of acknowledgement was her cue to go on. “S-so, we were at the doctor’s today, Marco and I, and yeah it’s – it’s twins. Two little monsters, once they’re delivered.” She nervously bit her lip, eyes cast to the floor.

The others nodded thoughtfully, and then Jean cracked a smile.

“Maybe then I only have to battle one for becoming a godfather.”

Marco snorted at that, and also Sasha started laughing. Only Connie remained silent for once, which stroke Marco and the others as odd. This was _Connie_ , after all.

After a thoughtful pause he finally said:

“Okay, but do you – do you have some kind of a plan? How do you think this’ll be – how can we – how can we live like that” – Connie gestured at their living room – “with t-two children? I mean, this flat is tiny. Fucking tiny. We can’t hide them in the broom cupboard if you haven’t noticed.”

Sasha looked at the floor again, biting on her lip – usually a sign that she tried to swallow up tears.

“I-I’m sorry,” she murmured. _As though it was her fault_. Marco hugged her tight and pressed his lips against her temple. She was so scared.

“No, no, don’t be,” Marco murmured. “We’ll find a way, we always find a way, okay?”

Sasha nodded again, curling up in Marco’s arms, Jean watching them irritatedly.

“Okay,” Marco whispered and gave Sasha a last squeeze. “We’ve got some time left, Connie, and a lot can still happen. And if I’m honest, I won’t fight becoming a suburban mum.” The last sentence he said with a wink, and Connie just shook his head in disbelief.

“Hey, so you got your issues sorted out?” Reiner asked a bit bored, helping himself to the first bottle of beer and flipping on the TV as though he was at home.

 

Despite having lasagne for lunch, Marco cooked some noodles with Bolognese sauce, actually nearly family-dinner sized since it was _Reiner_ who would eat with them. He could hear the others shouting profanities at their TV in the living room while kind of playing bowling with the empty beer bottles. Marco never was much into football, although being half English, half Italian, which earned him annoyed looks from his uncles and cousins, occasionally also from his little sister. His friends, however, were rather thankful since he then had the time to make some of his mum’s recipes, and nobody said no to Mrs Bodt’s cuisine.

At the half-time break, Jean sneaked into the kitchen, obviously looking for something else to drink.

“Already that tipsy, Kirschtein?” Marco mocked his friend with a grin as the other man approached the fridge.

“Nah,” the latter replied, inhaling deeply all the hot scents wavering in the air, “we can’t feed beer to a pregnant lady.” He smirked playfully.

Marco hated that. _He smirked. God, he smirked. Why why why can’t he just stop_ , Marco prayed in his head, trying to focus on the bubbling content of the sauce pot.

“I think there’s still some juice in the cupboard next to the sink. I also bought new, it’s in that paper bag on top.”

“Alright,” Jean murmured between rattles of paper while diving for the juice pack. Marco observed him from the corner of his eyes, making sure he got the right cupboard for the glasses and – this, under any circumstances, was _not_ normal stretching to reach for a goddamn glass.

Marco bit on his lip and returned to the noodles.

“Smells really good – should I help you with anything? I mean, I could make some dessert if that’s not enough for the two grizzly bears.”

Marco flinched. Jean stood directly behind him, looking over his shoulder into the boiling pots, and this was definitely too much for Marco to deal with. Stretching – _okay_ . But not – _not this_.

“Uhm, err, ye-yes,” Marco mumbled, pretending to examine the spices to lean away from this, this – _this idiot._

“Alright, OK, do you have fruits?“ Luckily, Jean had moved a bit, now standing next to Marco in a decent distance, and Marco clearly was glad that his blush also could have come from the heat of the stove.

“Plenty, just check the fridge,” the freckled man replied, stirring the noodles that they all downed in their water.

Jean nodded, shortly vanishing to bring Sasha the glass of orange juice, and then he began looting the fruit box Marco previously had stuffed so neatly that day.

They managed to move around each other quite easily, and Marco soon kind of had blended out that Jean was actually there. He began to hum some melodies unconsciously, as he always did when he felt unwatched.

Jean had to smile. It was, _yes_ , adorable how Marco tapped his foot with the rhythm of the song, sometimes parts of the lyrics escaping his lips, and he seemed happy, at peace. Something began blooming inside Jean’s chest every time; it sometimes happened when Marco typed one of his articles and the topic was exciting, or when he had to do internet research and leaned in too close to the screen that his button nose almost bumped onto the surface because he was too proud to wear his glasses.

Jean bit his lip as he tried to hide his widening grin, but it failed. It failed, and Marco couldn’t see it, sunk too deeply into cutting garlic and humming _Nothing Stays The Same_.

Somehow, even with Marco around him, Jean managed to remember the recipe of the fruit salad – it wasn’t just _fruit salad_ . It was the _Kirschtein’s Fruit Salad_ , handed down from his ancestors to their children for generations (his grandmother swore it actually was from the 10  th  century, although Jean doubted kiwis being available back then) – and Jean felt a creepy level of domestic how Marco and he worked around each other.

“Make a fucking move!” his cousin Hitch had hissed at him the last seven family gatherings since she somehow had a notion of _this thing_. Or Jean had had too much punch to keep his mouth shut. But sometimes he believed he wouldn’t make a move his entire lifetime, for whichever reason.

Jean didn’t even know how this all actually happened. They got their office room together, Marco somehow started sneaking into his life with his fucking genuine kindness, and when Jean noticed the thing for the first time, he already was butts deep in, and there was no way back. At some point he didn’t even feel sorry anymore for masturbating on the thought of his freckled friend. _Nope. No regret. Not the tiniest little bit._

This, to be precise, was more a _Marco_ thing, and the latter meticulously wrote diary about it.

Jean accidentally brushed Marco’s hand with his own, leaving a red-faced Marco who suddenly was heavily reminded in _this one fantasy_ he had, _Jean tracing tenderly his freckles up his arm, on his chest, the back, his a–_ Marco shivered. It had been yesterday, not even twenty-four hours ago that he was spoiled with white ribbons because of _this man right behind him who was now chopping a watermelon._

The noodles ringed.

 ***

Dinner ended with a loud discussion on how to wipe the opposing team’s arse properly, and Reiner soon excusing himself, leaving for drinks with Annie and Bert in the pub. Sasha yawned, patting her baby belly affectionately, and got up as well.

“You boys tidy up, Mama’s tired,” she grinned tiredly, and vanished in her room. The three men left behind put the dishes in the sink and split the remaining beer – exactly three bottles – while sitting on the sofa again.

“How was the game, actually?” Marco asked, his long legs resting on the couch.

“Yeah Connie, we just heard wild screaming,” Jean cackled, “couldn’t make any sense at all.”

“Tch. Sure.” Connie just rolled his eyes. “Chelsea could’ve been way better, I mean, the fuck?”

Jean just shrugged.

“Only saw the first half. Got nailed pretty badly this time,” he chuckled at Connie’s grievous face.

“I’m in my room,” was the curt answer of the short man, dragging the half-empty bottle of beer with him.

Marco threw his head back into the back rest, grinning like an idiot because of Connie’s exit. He hadn’t drunk in a while, and since beer always had given him a better kick than vodka or something similar, he felt pretty dizzy already. _Wouldn’t mind to fall asleep right now, wouldn’t mind to wrap into his arms, riding him…_ his mind wandered off until Jean brought him back with a poke in the ribs, making Marco shriek. He _hated_ that. How much he actually loved Jean, but this was just so _annoying_.

“H-hey,” Marco muttered, rubbing his sleepy face.

“I … I actually wanted to ask … about … _the offer_.”

Jean stared at the beer bottle in his hands, the etiquette peeling off a bit in the corners. Marco swallowed.

“I actually would do that, I mean that’s why you’re a journalist, but we also have to move somehow, or –”

“Maybe you can move in with me?” Jean suddenly spluttered out, obviously surprised by himself.

“H-huh?”

“I mean, I still have the couch, you know, it’s not perfect, and we would have to share a room if you don’t want to sleep in the bathtub, but it could maybe help Sasha and Connie if you don’t find a bigger flat for the three – _five_ of you. The babies need their own room, Connie had a point – and I think Eren mentioned something about a relative who had a two-room flat free, maybe if it’s OK for you, and if they agree as well, we could move in together. He said it wouldn’t be much more than what I have to pay now, so that’s fine with me, and as long as you live in my old flat, you don’t need to pay any rent, I can do that, you can focus on the babies and, and …” Jean’s thoughts trailed off. _Those brown eyes, those fucking chocolate brown eyes, they’re so beautiful, oh_ fuck me.

“I don’t – I don’t know. I mean I could also sleep on this couch, and the babies could have my room, you don’t have to move together with me because of this. You just moved in last year, that’s – that’s not so long, I mean I – uh…”

Yes, the alcohol was hitting Marco like a frying pan, but he also felt weird by the idea of actually sharing living space with Jean on a daily basis. Not like they were around each other almost daily after work already. He stared at Jean, trying to make any sense to what he had said, and he hated _knowing_ that he was rambling again, and alcohol made him always feel so _flirty_ , something not exactly useful if you want to discuss important things like _maybe sharing a flat_.

His head leaned against the back of the sofa, eyes wandering over Jean’s entire body, lips slightly parted. Yes, this was how he thought flirting went. Staring at people awkwardly.

 

Jean felt ... _something_. But this wasn’t the right moment, this was actually pretty shitty, but _how the fuck could Marco looks so fucking innocent and goddamn dirty at the same time?!_

Jean gasped. _Iraq, Iraq, think about Iraq, that’s what you’ve wanted to talk about in first place._

“S-so, uhm, well, I … I can’t do this alone, you know, the – the Iraq thing, with Jaeger and potential bombs exploding around me, I just can’t, and – you know, you want to go there, obviously, and the thing with the babies and Sasha and whatever, that’s gonna be alright, we’ll get that, I just … I just want you to be OK, and if you decide against it, it’s completely OK but I can’t do this without you, I’d be scared shitless, and Eren won’t help in any way. You remember that cop story from the very start? That was our – don’t know, maybe in our second or third month, and Eren was so _fucking stupid_ and –" Jean stopped himself. He felt tears dwelling in his eyes, trying to swallow it but one little droplet escaped. He felt his fingers shaking, clinging to the brown bottle between his hands. Here he was, being nonsensical again, but he knew he couldn’t do this once again.

“‘s alright, Jean. I won’t leave you alone. Not this time.” Marco paused. “You wanna do this?” He had reached for Jean’s arm, rubbing soothing circles with his thumb on clothed skin. Jean still was scared. Why did Marco leave this decision on him?

“I’m in if you are,” Jean then replied. And suddenly, everything felt so clear.

Marco nodded.

“We’re in this together now.”

Jean stared blankly at the wall across him, nodding thoughtfully in agreement.

“Yes, seems like this. Just hope we’ll get home in one piece,” Jean sighed, his heart beating faster.

Marco hummed in agreement, his guts suddenly twisting uncomfortably.

“I’ve never heard of journalists being attacked, at any time. There’ve been so many already. We’ll be safe.”

“We’ll be safe,” Jean repeated in a murmur, sipping at the rest of his beer.


	2. You Could Tell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I had a dream the other night  
> About how we only get one life  
> Woke me up right after two  
> Stayed awake and stared at you  
> So I wouldn't lose my mind  
> \- _Something I Need_ by OneRepublic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took pretty long (three times longer than the first) but well, I think it has a considerable size and I NEVER have written something that long in one piece so yeah. I'm kind of proud.  
> Have fun with Mr and Mrs Bennet ehhh.. Kirschtein (seriously, I don't know when but somehow P&P crept into this and well, now they're there)
> 
>  
> 
> ~~Also 10 rubber points for the person (except for Mintycrystal) who can somewhat predict what might happen during this fic because the amount of foreshadowing is pretty darn huge.~~

"Hey, Mag," Marco smiled sleepily into his webcam. He had worked late, it was almost midnight, and he was worried why exactly his sister wanted to call him at this time of the day.

 _"Hey Cookie,"_ replied she, grinning at her dishevelled older brother on the other end of the line.

Marco groaned.

"You’ll never get tired of calling me that, will you?"

 _"Nope,"_ Maggie chuckled, " _you’ll always look like a chocolate-chip cookie, I’m sorry my dear."_

"You look exactly the same, Maggie, so please just quit this," Marco rubbed his face.

 _"You can’t talk me out of ten years of a habit, Marco,"_ replied to his equally freckled sister, _"besides, you call me Maggie, and Marky sounds_ really _odd."_

Marco let out a huff.

"Why are you actually up that late?" he yawned, Maggie rolling her eyes.

_‘Got stuff to do, something to read... you know?’_

Marco nodded along her talking.

 _"I’m studious, y’know, and we’ll have our exams for Literature next week. At least I’ve got more time for that since Justin ditched me,"_ she hid her pout in a smile.

"Oh. You too." Marco suddenly was a bit more awake.

 _"Huh?"_ Her brown locks fell over her shoulder as she cocked her head in confusion.

"Well, George broke up with Sasha as well, so–"

 _"Oh, ah, yeah..."_ the freckled girl grinned sheepishly, _"he was really weird, how I looked at Louise all the time, and that he had to keep me off from men and women –"_ her eyes wandered off, _"Anyway, we decided to move together with Henry, we’ve found something decent directly in Manchester."_

"I thought he broke up?" Marco stared at her bewildered. Not that he minded his sister’s relationships, the only sting it gave him was that she was six years younger and had much more going on than himself in the past years. No, actually in total, if he remembered correctly. A few odd drunken make-outs with Sasha which helped her realize that she definitely hadn’t fallen in love that way with Marco, his only one night stand when he was twenty-three – leaving him feel sore and heartbroken because this man actually meant a lot to him. He didn’t want to remember his name. This wasn’t much in total, and as he examined his recent hopes, this probably wouldn’t change much in the future.

 _"No, silly. Louise, Henry, and I. Justin leaves for South Africa next semester anyway,"_ his sister brought him back into reality with her chuckles.

"Ah right. The world saviour," Marco grinned back.

 _"Says the right one,"_ retorted Maggie cheekily.

"I helped out in a shelter just a few kilometres away from home and did not need to travel around half the world for that." _Oh no._ His stomach dropped. They didn’t know yet.

 _"You OK, Marco?"_ He saw the freckled girl’s brows furrowing, biting her lips in concern.

"I – uhm, I have news as well," he swallowed. No. His mum would not allow him to go.

 _"Yeah?"_ She obviously didn’t know what to think about that.

"I – I’d actually rather tell you and Mum together, it’s..." then he paused. They would see each other maybe at Christmas, not much earlier. He couldn’t wait any longer. This was something serious you could not just inform people about twenty minutes before departure.

"I got an offer from Erwin Smith to go to Iraq for one month to report about everyday, life." He could not look her in the eyes.

 _"_ Iraq _?"_ Her voice cracked a bit, he couldn’t tell whether it was from the connection or actually in her voice. He nodded, looking down in his lap, avoiding the screen.

"Maybe it will be expanded but I can’t leave Sasha alone that long."

 _"What’s wrong with her? An accident?"_ she looked at him in utter panic. She had always adored Sasha, that was easy for Marco to read.

"Kind of," Marco’s mouth deformed into a weird grimace, he did not know whether he was allowed to spread the news already. He was so happy for Sasha, and there still was the fear of what might be if something went wrong, if they couldn’t find a proper place, if there happened something to the children – but what if George came back? What if that was just a panic reaction, what if he didn’t mean it like that and would stand at their door the next morning, crying and sobbing about how wrong he was and promising the world to her?

"I don’t know if I’m allowed to tell – but it’s nothing- nothing bad that happened. More the contrary," he smiled again, this humble but enormously happy smile, peacefully glancing down into his mug which once had been filled with tea, "We maybe have to re-arrange our habitat though."

Maggie glanced at her brother with a smug grin, obviously deducing how exactly Sasha’s recent status was.

 _"Give her a hug from me,"_ she asked her brother, _"By the way, I’ve still got stuff at Mum’s and wanted to ask if you could give me a ride since Mum’s car is broken again and I don’t want to get all the boxes by train."_

"Uhm, sure! When do you need me?" Marco was glad he could postpone the serious topic a bit.

 _"I don’t know if you’ve got time, but I’d say next weekend. I don’t mind if we do it the next week either. Mum promised to make some cake if we two come, soooo..."_ Maggie smiled at him sheepishly.

"No, this weekend sounds fine," Marco grinned, "Shall I pick you up at twelve on Saturday?"

 _"Yes, I think the others will be awake at that time as well,"_ Maggie laughed, _"But back again to the job offer – are you serious? I mean, you can get killed off so easily, there are suicide bombers all the time, this is fucking_ dangerous _!"_ In her eyes laid a silent plea not to go. At all. Marco stared into nothingness.

"I – I know it’s dangerous but Trost is a relatively calm town, the Red Cross has a hospital there where Eren’s friend works at, and he’s been there for three years now, and what he’s told, there weren’t much more than four attacks with only a handful of injured people, and two bodies," he tried to cool her down.

 _"But_ what if you were one of the bodies of the next attack _?"_ Maggie seemed very stressed, and so _angry_. Marco looked down at his hole-y socks. He needed to fix them again.

"I ... I won’t, Maggie. This is so _unlikely_ , and they don’t attack journalists anyway. We’ll be safe. _I_ ’ll be safe." He probably wouldn’t excel in convincing her, yet she didn’t oppose anymore. "I know what I do, and if it wasn’t me, it would be someone else going South with the risk of not coming back. But I will, OK? I will be coming back home, I promise."

Maggie stayed silent for a long time. After taking a deep breath she asked with quivering voice, _"So, at twelve on Saturday?"_

Marco nodded.

 _"You know, Mum will kill you when she hears about that,"_ Maggie shortly added just before Marco ended the video-call.

"Yes. Yes, I know," he whispered as he shut the laptop closed.

 

He didn’t find sleep as easily as usual, it took a long time of staring blankly at the dark ceiling until he finally rolled to the side and curled up into a few hours of slumber. However, his malicious alarm clock threw him out of his bed with its shrill, monotonous beeping, way too early, leaving Marco startled, his limbs tangled in the sheets. He heard mumbling from the neighbouring room, Sasha pleading for another five minutes of sweet dreams, probably turning around and slamming her pillow over her head.

Marco hauled himself out of his blanket, grabbing for something that looked pretty familiar and was probably his dressing gown, and stumbled more asleep than awake through the small room of his own, mesmerizing where stray books laid on the floor or which piles of clothes he should rather avoid not to tangle himself up again.

Mornings weren’t his forte, and this was a general problem in the household.

While passing her room, Marco gently knocked on Sasha’s door, knowing that she wouldn’t get up if he didn’t remind her to. A muffled FUMB on the other end of the corridor indicated that Connie probably just slammed the floor again. They definitely were no morning persons.

The freckled man proceeded into the kitchen to set up the kettle, then he wandered into the bathroom as long as the water needed to heat up.

He looked _disgusting_.

The rings under his eyes had become more prominent since he had received the e-mail from Erwin. At first it was easy to push everything away, there was still time to worry later. But now, it sneaked into his life, very slowly, but it unfolded its presence by every day, every thought.

The kettle started whistling as Marco was brushing his teeth, making Connie rush to the stove and pouring the tea as everyone liked it, and also from Sasha’s room came more animated noises.

Most things in the early morning hours happened barely lit. They had soon agreed that the lamps in the kitchen were enough until everyone was dressed, especially when they were half-way still sleep-walking through their flat.

 

"Butter," murmured Sasha, holding her hand like a queen requesting more wine in a bored tone. Her eyes were fixed on her slices of toast to keep them open, her hands automatically buttering the bread as Marco had shoved the butter in her direction. A bit more, and he was sure she would fall asleep directly on her plate.

Sasha’s appetite had increased a bit again since her morning sickness slackened, and the baby belly began to show under normal clothing already. They had pinned the first picture of the scan on the fridge, making Marco worry and smile at the same time whenever he passed by.

Somehow they made it this morning like always, wrapping lunch packages for Sasha with a routine usually parents have. Well, they soon would be, Marco mused as he packed his own box, significantly smaller than the bunch of food Sasha carried with herself to school.

Soon they sat cramped together in the small Beetle, the early hour rushing by with barely any conversation as usual. They dropped Sasha off at her school, watching how she sleepily dragged her bags with her, and lining up themselves back into the traffic.

"I really hate winter," Connie murmured in the back seat, staring through the window, "I wanna bike again if it wasn’t so fucking cold."

The scowl he was wearing on his face made Marco chuckle. Connie rolled his eyes and observed the streets again. House lined up next to another, looking almost identical except for maybe the front door paint or the flowers framing the garden paths. Everything looked so neat, so ordinary. Kind of contrary to Marco’s grandma’s house with the wild garden and the fields surrounding it, the sheep bleating when they passed them as children running through the high grass. At one point he had dreamt about actually living there, in the country, in the small forester’s lodge near the woods. He had imagined how his children ran through the house and the yard, and he would have a small office in the back of the house where he could look outside, the windows framed with ivy, while writing.

 _Yes_ , he sighed internally, _writing_. Writing his own novels. This was what he wanted when he was ten.

They pulled into the car park near the office, circling around a bit like vultures above their future prey until they finally found a niche to park in.

***

Jean met Marco as he made his walk from the coffee machine, the freckled man still in his coat with his scarf laid on his neck like his literature professor did in university, Jean mused. It was kind of a classy-gentleman-thing. It didn’t keep you very warm, not as warm as the scarf could, but that wasn’t the point. It also wasn’t the point to actually close the coat to save warmth. The coat, the scarf were there to actually reveal what was so classy underneath, _and today_ – Jean’s widening eyes focused on the corridor again.

Marco shrugged off the coat and hung it on one of the hooks, together with the scarf from Mikasa. Jean’s eyes travelled down Marco’s torso, while the latter was still busy fumbling with the garments.

He wore a _waistcoat_. He hadn’t worn a waistcoat in a while, as far as Jean could remember, and he had forgotten how ... _undeniably hot_ this man looked in a three-piece. After occasionally glancing at his smart co-worker, Jean finally seated himself at his desk, slurping the first sips of coffee in the morning. Well, not quite. He usually lost track after the fourth cup, but this was the first of the crappy office coffee which surprisingly woke him up pretty well every morning.

He loved seeing Marco in a suit again, especially in the neat, grey three-piece which’s jacket already laid abandoned over the back of the freckled man’s office chair. But honestly, Mr Bott could look good in, like, _ANYTHING_. Jean remembered a photo of Marco when he was about twenty, long strands falling into his laughing face, giving Sasha a piggy-back ride. It was his heavy metal phase, Marco had explained later on, blushing profoundly at the way Jean examined the photograph. He had always been handsome, and sure as hell Jean would’ve fallen in love with him if they had met a few years prior. In his punk phase. He never liked thinking back to _that_. His face morphed into a pout.

Marco, however, didn’t give himself much time to study his counterpart this morning, instantly diving into some files and his notebook before he even considered waking up his computer with a gentle push of the power button. He rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt, scratching the spot behind his right ear with a pen as he read through some of the notes taken the previous day.

Jean took another sip of his coffee.

"Interview today?" he asked, almost glaring at his ~~boy~~ best friend from underneath his dark eyebrows.

Marco nodded absent-mindedly as a reply, stuffing what looked like a bagel into his mouth while his eyes never left his scribbles. Marco could be a perfect human being but his writing was awful, Jean had to admit. He wasn’t the most ordered human being anyway.

 

Jean half-heartedly studied some graphics as Eren entered the office room, his camera bag dangling at his side.

"Mornin’ guys!" he grinned with bright green eyes.

 _How the fuck can you be so motivated at this time of the day_ , Jean thought grumpily, glaring at the intruder. Now he couldn’t steal some glances with nobody looking anymore. Eren Jaeger’s MTA was officially over by now; it was almost horribly amusing how this man was forced to take some days off by Levi Ackerman, the department head. And even then he wouldn’t leave his job alone.

Eren was all the flannel-photographer, messy and eager, but his shots were really good, so Jean kindly ignored that he sometimes looked like a teenager to a field-trip for biology class.

"Marco, you ready?" Eren asked with an excited grin, poking the other man in the shoulder.

"Hmhmm," Marco hummed, packing his stuff while still reading an article on the web.

_Oh no._

How had Jean missed that Marco wore his glasses again? He bit on the inside of his cheek to keep himself from making any noises, and watched how the other two parted, waving a curt good-bye.

He was alone again, moaning silently by the thought of his friend who should be illegal, and tore his head back to go further with the statistics and take notes.

At around twelve he sent his notes to Marco and Eren via e-mail, just in case, and noticed a new one in his inbox. It was from Erwin.

Jean’s heart dropped to the floor, his guts twisting uncomfortably.  Although it was basically just a note for the next articles’ deadlines,  it also was a big, fat reminder that he still hadn’t told anyone.

Marco sent a message that they would be right back and if Jean wanted something particular for lunch. He shrugged at his phone, opting for some chicken teriyaki from the Asia restaurant around the corner. He really didn’t like the ratatouille from the cantina.

 

Marco animatedly chatted with Eren as they turned around the corner, the takeaway noodles in his hand radiating some warmth through the box, their breaths freezing in midair and producing tiny fluffy clouds.

"So Mikasa’ll be back in a few days already!" Marco’s eyes glowed with excitement as they crossed the street. That was some happy news at last. A few days ago Sasha went shopping for pregnancy clothing and almost started to cry on the price tag. Such things happened pretty frequent, and Mikasa returning sounded like Christmas in his ears.

"Yeah! It feels almost like eternity since we’ve seen each other," Eren grinned from one ear to the other, "She also said she could give me the address of a translator, he’s really good and has been in Iraq quite often, worked for the army."

"That’s great!" Marco felt like puking. "That’s great."

"His name is Bert Huber, and maybe we can get to meet him in two weeks."

"Yeah." Marco just wanted to go home, lie in bed and cry until he fell asleep. Eren talked a lot about Mikasa again and where her troop was stationed for the next few months. Marco barely listened, getting collywobbles just from thinking about the weekend when his mother probably would tear him apart. But on the other hand, who else would bring the next article about riots or shootings in the Arab world she would read in the newspaper? It was his job, his duty, and he wouldn’t be a coward, he wouldn’t chicken out of this. Not again.

"Hey Jean."

Eren’s smugly grinned notion tore him out of his train of thoughts. He didn’t even remember entering the building. Jean looked up from behind his desk, smirking as he saw the container with sweet-smelling noodles which Marco instantly handed out.

Eren walked over to his desk, unpacking his camera and bring his own computer to life.

"So, you gonna come with us, Jean? You know we can’t wait forever," the brunet said, back to the other men, fumbling with some wires.

"I – I still gotta tell my parents," Jean muttered, his eagerness for the teriyaki bursting into dust.

"You know, you’ve gotta make your last will and all that jazz," Eren reminded him.

"I know that, Jaeger, just give me some fucking time, OK? Gonna see my parents the weekend anyway." He poked the noodles with his chopsticks.

"You too?" Marco looked at him a bit ... _relieved_. It wasn’t only him who had to confess. Well, _confess_. That sounded as though he had committed a crime. He was just doing his job, he convinced himself what must’ve been the thousandth time. Maybe Maggie had slipped something anyway. Maybe his mum would understand, maybe she was proud, maybe – he wouldn’t have to cry just now.

 

This was his personal emotional rollercoaster, and he grew tired of it. He felt so alone, so _lonely_ , the guilt nagging at his insides, the doubt that everything’s going to be alright. He hated to sort out everything on his own, but on the other hand he hated to share this with anyone else anyway. He hated to cry alone but he wouldn’t have it any other way.

It wasn’t simply the Iraq thing, and he was far from believing that it was, yet it added too much a weight he barely could carry anymore. And now he had to break down, in front of his team mates, _in front of his giant crush_ , and he couldn’t breathe. The heat filled him up, his mind fogged by the tears rolling down his cheeks. Marco could feel the looks of the other men on him, yet his vision was blurred, his ears felt numb. It was an endless echo of sobs inside his head.

"Marco? _Marco_..."

He felt arms wrapping around him, keeping his chest from combusting, keeping him from falling down; but it felt wrong. _So wrong_.

 _He_ was strong, he _had_ to be strong. How could Sasha rely on him if he was crying because of something simple as that? When he couldn’t think about diapers, or _home_ , without tears dwelling in his eyes? When did he become so broken, so boneless, since when did he have to cling to Jean that way?

He nuzzled his face into the other man’s crook, wetting it with even more tears than he had already shed. _Jean_. Another point of his list of things-I-have-to-worry-about. Why couldn’t his life be normal, why was it such a train-wreck, why wasn’t he married yet and had his first child on its way? Hannah and Franz had made it. They were normal. They had a small house in the town they were born in, Franz with his local bank office job, a bank which probably never would send him down to bloody _Iraq_. Everything was so messed up. Why did he have to grow up in the first place?

Eren and Jean were talking. _Were they talking to him?_ He did not know. He just was alone with his thoughts, and it drove him crazy. It was too much. It just was too much.

He could feel Jean’s throat vibrating against his cheek while he was talking, and it might have been soothing if this wasn’t another reason to cry. A devil’s circle, so to speak.

 

It took quite a while until Marco stopped crying, and how much Eren and Jean had pleaded to eventually tell them what was wrong, his lips remained silent.

Jean’s heart broke. With every little sob on Marco’s side it died a little. What was this. What was going on in Marco’s pretty head, and _why wouldn’t he tell him? Him, out of all people._

Eren looked at them rather helplessly while Jean rubbed soothing circles over his friend’s back. What the hell was wrong? He had been so convinced, he had been the one who wanted to do this. He wasn’t breaking down because of his duty, was he?

Jean pulled Marco closer to his chest, feeling the latter’s pulse under his fingertips as he patted his neck, his shoulders, the back of his head. Marco almost felt like a lifeless puppet if it wasn’t for his heartbeat.

 

It hurt. It hurt so much. And while he was at it, he could let go, drinking in the impression of what could’ve been his if he was just brave enough to risk something as beautiful as what they had. Marco didn’t want to stop crying, not now when it was too late anyway. He couldn’t remember the last time he had cried so much.

At some point his shoulders stopped shaking so violently, his mouth felt dry from the excessive loss of water, and he was so tired and weary. _Just sleeping in his arms, forgetting everything and just fall asleep with so much Jean wrapped around me._

He was so close, mere centimetres away from his lips, it would’ve been a thank you; but Marco couldn’t find the courage or the will to kiss him. Falling asleep in his arms, however, seemed an appropriate option though.

"‘s OK now?"

Marco felt tentative hands tugging him up again so his weight was mainly supported by his own legs again. Marco nodded sleepily, he felt sore but so relieved.

"You alright? Marco?"

It was Eren’s voice.

"Jus’ somehow a little breakdown, i’s OK," Marco muttered in reply, wiping away the last few droplets from his cheeks and jaw, and sat down at his desk.

"Are you seriously alright? This definitely is not normal, Marco. Please?" Eren still eyed him a bit suspecting, Jean patted his shoulder and retreated to his own work space.

"‘tis just been a lot lately. Christmas stress ‘n everything, y’know?" Marco began unpacking his notes and went through them, underlining important things. His mind felt like a sponge.

"You know, you can talk to us, we don’t mind," Jean said, eyes focused on the freckled man. The latter nodded absent-mindedly, some sniffles still escaping him, but as a whole he seemed pretty put-together. At least he hoped it was that way.

 

Somehow, the three of them managed to work on their articles, Eren taking snapshots every now and then when the other two weren’t watching, and the green-eyed man earned several snarls from Jean because of that. They were wrapped in the fluffy warmth of after-cry silence, and Marco kind of enjoyed it. In the end of the day Marco and Jean had to promise Eren to take charge of their testaments, though. Marco just wanted to head home, wanted to watch whatever was on TV that night, and fall asleep on the couch. He felt weirdly exhausted. Just as he looked for his car in the car park, Jean hold him up.

"Marco, I know it’s OK if you don’t want to talk, but what was that at lunch? Is everything alright? Are _you_ alright? I can lend you some money if you are short for Christmas or whatever. Just ... please, just let me know, OK?"

Marco hated to look in his eyes, but he had to. The plea in his look was almost killing him, it made him breathless, searching for words but not finding them. He almost started crying again.

"No, no I’m fine, I just ... I maybe need some space every now and then, it’s been a lot lately with Sasha, I don’t know."

"You can come over to my place tonight, I wouldn’t mind some company, to be honest. I also have a bottle of some fine wine, Hitch had come over as she dropped off her brother at the airport. 'For Christmas spirits,' or whatever she had said." Everything Jean said came out in a rush, as though he feared to forget everything.

Marco’s face heated up immediately. This ... this couldn’t be an attempt to get into his pants, could it? _Since when did Jean drink wine_ , he usually preferred beer over anything else (except maybe a Black Russian), did he tell Hitch to get him wine? For Marco? Could that be? To tempt him, to persuade him to stay the night?

_No, Marco, Jean’s your friend, there’s no such thing as him wanting to actually have sex with you, nor a relationship, grow up, Bott._

"Thanks, Jean, I–" _Well, what now? You actually wanted to make ravioli tonight, and Sasha’s probably starving already. On the other hand, you still have leftovers from the weekend, and it’s not like Connie doesn’t know how to cook at all._

"I still got the car here."

"Err ... do Connie or Sasha need it tomorrow?"

Marco shook his head.

"Connie got his free day tomorrow, and Sasha could also go by bus, it’s alright."

Jean walked backwards to the rusty, red Renault he had gotten from his grandma for his graduation.

"You gonna hop in, or what?" he grinned at Marco who still stood there looking undecidedly on the ground. Marco moved slowly in his direction.

 

The car was cold and clammy, Jean rubbing his hands, feeling surprisingly eager and excited as his engine roared to life. He had Marco over, for some _wine_ (seriously, that and his mum’s wine glasses was everything he needed to feel classy once in a while and helped him conceal his actual wimpiness), and it was to _support Marco_ , help him _forget_ whatever worried his beautiful head, and maybe, _maybe_ , just _really maybe if Jean was a lucky bastard_ , Marco would show his gratitude this night.

_Maybe._

_More like not at all._

Jean sighed, and they drove off to his apartment.

***

Marco’s cheeks glowed from all the alcohol, though he swore to himself that _it had just been three glasses_ because Jean magically appeared with _another_ bottle, and he seriously couldn’t help but ogle his friend after _that_. On the other hand, Jean seemed to make a show out of _everything_ , so it was hard not to. The worst was the images flashing through his dizzy brain, how Jean would bend for him and stretch, how it would be if he pinned his friend’s hands above the latter’s head while he was sucking out moans from the mouth he was kissing.

While Marco was entertaining thoughts that kept him half-hard for most of the time, Jean just plainly stared at him. Every inch of Marco was so precious, every inch of him should be plastered with kisses over kisses, and _if he just could hold on to him_. But there it was, this stupid, stupid foil dividing them from the contact they needed, they yearned so much to get, but it was this slim line no one dared to cross, out of fear to embarrass, to destroy the little that they had.

Jean slowly wiggled towards Marco on the couch, wrapping his arms around his torso and pulling him half-way into his lap, snuggling into dark, silky hair. It smelled so nicely. It smelled like Marco.

Marco greeted Jean’s decision to position himself on his back, otherwise he would’ve become witness of the freckled man’s half-chub, and this wasn’t what he needed at that moment. He enjoyed the body heat transferring through his white button-up, it calmed him, he loved how close he was to Jean, and somehow, somehow it was perfect for falling asleep, the last glass of Merlot not even half-way emptied, but still.

Marco looked incredibly peaceful as he mumbled something incomprehensible while drifting off to sleep. Jean didn’t feel the urge to wake him up, though his leg started to itch a bit, but this was fine. Marco deserved some peace.

He still had not the slightest idea what had happened to Marco because he couldn’t believe it was just stress with Sasha. Marco didn’t crack easily. Jean caressed Marco’s hair, it was soft, dark as ebony. He never wanted to ever let  go of Marco. Not now.

Marco shifted slightly in his sleep, now curled up like a baby, clinging to Jean’s right arm like to a stuffed animal, and seriously, he could get used to it. This was all he ever wanted, seeing Marco somewhat content, and it was worth it.

He was worth the whole world, and he didn’t knew it. This might have been the worst about it, Jean thought as he nuzzled his face into Marco’s hair, letting his left hand fall loosely on the freckled man’s shoulder. It was a sad thing, and he couldn’t do much about this.

***

Marco shrieked awake.

No. _No._

His breath was panicky, his body covered in cold sweat, eyes ripped open and full of angst.

The room was dark, only the cool light from the streetlamps illuminated the scenery. This wasn’t home. He felt his grip tightening around something solid, something soft.

"Marco…?"

There was a body underneath his own, it was warm, it was breathing, and it had Jean’s voice.

"Are you alright?" Jean murmured, moving to untangle their limbs and get rid of the stiffness of his physique.

_He was alive, thank God, he was alive._

Marco sat up, rubbing his shoulder. Nightmares were exhausting.

"Y-yes I’m good," Marco mumbled. It was just a dream.

"D’you wanna…wanna go back to sleep, or…?"

Marco shrugged, looking over his shoulder at the other man.

"Don’ know, what time is it?"

Jean had a short glance at his mobile.

"Barely four in the morning, c’mon, let’s get back to sleep."

Marco nodded, grabbing for the rug at the end of the sofa, and nestled himself against Jean again.

"That’s OK for you, Jean?" He just felt a nod beside his own head, no answer.

After some minutes of uncomfortable shifting around to find a good position to sleep again, Marco got up.

"Mind if I take off my trousers, it’s kind of uncomfortable."

"No no, just fine," Jean was half-asleep again. Marco got rid of his slacks and dived back to Jean on the couch. He riddled on why Jean hadn’t gotten up yet to move to his own bed, but maybe he just caught Jean in his lazy mood. Normal friends…well, did they spent their night together on a cramped sofa while there’s a comfortable bed waiting for at least one of them? Marco did not know.

He heard Jean’s calm breathing, the heartbeat steady and regular. He could fall asleep again.

 

The next morning was uncommonly slow. It was not like they had a big hangover, it was just sleepiness and comfortable silence. Marco had taken a shower, his complexion feeling too sore to just slip into his suit and leave.

The sight was something Jean had drunken in with delight, especially as the only-in-towel-Marco quickly  had jumped out of the shower again to ask whether he could borrow the shampoo. Even though Marco didn’t swim anymore and wasn’t in his best form, he still was muscular enough to have Jean stare at the few droplets rippling down the stomach and collecting somewhere in the tiny happy trail. His mind went blank, literally, and if Marco hadn’t repeated his question, Jean probably would have drooled on the floor.

The breakfast passed quietly, nobody touching anything that happened in the last twenty-four hours, maybe for the best. They didn’t talk in the car, nor when they walked to the office where Eren already waited while editing some photos. It was one of those days which are wrapped into cotton wool, calm and cosy.

***

Marco drove home in the best moods, humming along to the pop-songs on the radio, occasionally tapping at his steering wheel when he had to wait at a red traffic light. He was fine, and that felt good.

Sasha already was home when he arrived, hunched over something for her classes, one hand always placed on her little baby-belly.

"I’m hungry," was her greeting as Marco walked into the living room, his hair still curly and messy since Jean didn’t even own a comb.

"We got so many left-overs, Sasha, why don’t you heat them up?" Marco laughed, making his way to the kitchen.

"Nuh-uh, if there ever had been left-overs in this household, I’d remember," she replied.

"But your dad brought at least five boxes full of potato-gratin, this can’t be all gone by just now."

"It didn’t even survive the weekend, honey," Sasha frowned.

"Then order some pizza, just once, I’m not your kitchen-fairy," Marco complained as he took a look at the fridge. Indeed, there wasn’t much left.

"I gotta feed three people, correct all those vocabulary checks, and then I am not allowed to eat the food in _my_ fridge. Thank you very much."

"How about we order pizza while I bake some cookies for Mum? Connie’s still at the handball tournament, isn’t he?"

Sasha shrugged.

"I somehow lose track with Shorty, but yeah, pizza sounds great."

Marco threw the telephone into her direction, laughing something about the usual for himself, and vanished in the kitchen again.

The Christmas cookie-recipe he already knew by heart, and, just in case, he would bake the double amount since he knew otherwise the dough won’t last long enough. The pizza was delivered roundabout twenty minutes later, perfect for the cookie dough which had to cool down for the next few hours. They joked a lot on how ridiculous the politics were, how horrible City-people were to be with, with their snobbish and pompous manners, demanding obnoxious amounts of money for fucking up an entire system, and for once they didn’t have to think about their personal worries.

Sasha later helped Marco a bit with cutting the cookies, sneaking away with way too much dough, but _it was just so tasty_. Marco just rolled his eyes and chuckled, pushing another tray into the stove.

They had left some of the cookies out for Connie to eat whenever he came back, and they were tired enough to soon go to bed, even though it was barely ten.

 

Marco laid in his bed for a while, reconsidering the events of the day, and it was weird. With what a face Jean had looked at him as he came out of the shower, as though he was a green man from Mars. His face heated up by the thought, slowly his mind wandered off to similar incidents from the night before when he had actively entertained the idea of just straddling Jean instantly while dragging his mouth anywhere he could. With an audible sigh, Marco decided to take care of his slowly growing boner, remember everything of the last evening.

And soon, everything came crashing down again. _What if._

These were the two most horrible words he knew. What if.

What if he had turned around to Jean and just kissed him. He had been so close, twice that day, so near, he could’ve just turned his head a little, and Jean’s lips would have been pressed on his. What if.

What if he had accidentally slurred an ‘I love you.’ What if Jean had wanted to get into his pants back then, what if Jean had dragged him into his flat during a messy make-out session.

The thoughts sent shivers down his spine, full of lust, making him gasp at the memory of Jean’s blown pupils, his slightly opened lips, how his hands had held him tight to Jean’s chest where he could hear, where he could feel the heartbeat of him. At the same time there was this endless regret, the slowly building grief of what could have been, what could’ve been ruined, and it made him sick. So sick.

He came by the memory of Jean’s breath in his neck. Silent and sad, as always.

***

Oddly enough, the radio station played the Macarena-song as Jean drove to the train station to get his parents to his home, and he probably sang along too loudly because an old lady passing the street looked at him with a critical expression. His mother waved at him even when he barely could make them out as persons yet, and with a beaming smile she nearly ran to the car of her son. Oh boy, this would become awful.

His father stood on the pavement, maybe a bit disconnected from the happening, but still glad to see his son again after what had felt like ages. Jean groaned.

"Hey, Mum, Dad," he greeted them as he opened the door, instantly being swept away in a bear-hug from his mum. Mrs Kirschtein had always been very affectionate with her only-child. Mr Kirschtein just stood beside his family, clapping on Jean’s shoulder as some kind of greeting when his wife still didn’t let go of the boy.

"Yes Mum, we just - I gonna help … Mum, you gotta let me go at some point," Jean gasped, and suddenly Mrs Kirschtein understood that she was crushing her son to death.

"Oh, I’m sorry, Jeanbo," she muttered slightly embarrassed, and released him from her grip, not without ruffling his hair.

The Mr Kirschteins loaded the luggage into the shabby car, and soon they set off with Mrs Kirschtein’s chatter about the neighbours and how their children got already married and their own children, and when could they hope about hearing hopeful news?

"I’m fucking twenty-seven, Mum, others don’t even have a job," Jean pressed through gritted teeth, his eyes fixed on the road, "just be happy with what you have."

"But there isn’t anyone you have at least slight interest in, either?" his mother looked at him questioning, her hand dangerously close to his haircut again.

" _Mum."_ Jean glared at her through the rear mirror.

"You never talk about such stuff to me," she complained somewhat offended, "so I must ask if I want to get to know my son."

"Seriously, Jean, even a boy would be OK, we just don’t want to see and watch you become old and bitter like Uncle Alfie," his father suddenly intervened.

Jean gulped.

"W-well…err…so, you really don’t mind?" he accidentally swatted his mother’s hand away while rubbing his neck himself.

"What do you mean, honey?" Mrs Kirschtein asked surprised.

"Uhm, the - the boy-thing." His voice became hoarse, "However, I don’t have time to think about such stuff now anyway, we’ve got a lot to do at work, preparing things and stuff."

"What do you prepare? You don’t talk about work either," Mr Kirschtein leaned forward into his seat, his face lightening with hope.

"For field-journalism. A trip, kind of." _Focus on the street, Jean, focus on the street._ His knuckles whitened around the steering wheel.

"Are you going with them?" His mother visibly was happy to get to know something about Jean’s life, and it made him feel even worse.

"Y-yes, I will," he muttered, biting on his lower lip.

"How long?"

"About a month, I s'pose."

His parents nodded in unison, and Jean was almost sure they’d drop the topic.

"Where exactly are you going?"

The car came to a halt.

"We’re there, let me help you with the bags." Jean never had been faster out of his car, not even when he had noticed that a big fat raccoon had made it his home four years ago.

"But you won’t write a reportage about your student-life, do you?" Mrs Kirschtein joked as they climbed out into the semi-cold December air.

"No, definitely not," Jean said, vaguely remembering why his mother might have said this.

The climb up the stairs she talked about a documentation she had watched on TV, and Jean was safe until the end of lunch.

***

Marco took his time to drive up to his sister, maybe to wake up, maybe to sort his thoughts - he did not know. There was a lot on his mind after all.

He stopped twice for a potty break until he reached the exit for Manchester, mentally cursing the combination of tea and coffee he had for breakfast. He hadn’t been in Manchester for a while and never had seen Maggie’s new place, so it took a while until he finally found the street, but when he arrived he heard angry rapid Italian from one of the windows, and it definitely sounded like Margareta. He had to grin. Whatever his grandfather had said, Maggie was about to wash his head, and she wasn’t going easy on him. As he pressed the ring button, the raging became more distant, soon the front door sprung open, and Marco entered.

There were a few quick kisses on each cheek and a beaming smile as a greeting, and Maggie closed the door behind him. The front of the corridor had a lot of space so all the stray shoes and jackets didn’t make it too crowded. It was a very light and free apartment, it didn’t feel as tight and small as his own, and he definitely envied his little sister.

"How was the ride?" Maggie asked while she shove shoes on her feet.

"It was OK, got a bit full at first but around Birmingham the traffic became less. Still a bit tired, though."

"If you don’t mind, I could drive to Mum’s, then you could get some sleep," she laughed and wrapped a scarf around her neck.

"Sure." Marco leant against the doorframe, watching his sister dress up and grabbing her keys.

"The others are still asleep, probably partying too hard last night," she said, eyeing up everything once again before they left. The chatted a little as they went to the car, how their aunt would try and play matchmaker at Christmas if they weren’t careful enough.

"What did Nonno say to you at the phone?" Marco asked as they were driving on the main street.

"I accidentally let slip that Justin and I broke up, and now he wants me to settle with one of our I-don’t-know-how-often-removed cousins from Italy. Like, the fuck?"

Marco chuckled.

"I mean, if I hadn’t stared at Louise for a bit too long in a drunk state, Justin would still be my boyfriend. He’s an arse, though. And goddamn boring, I don’t even know what rid me back then." She halted at a red traffic light.

"Being bi is just shitty," Marco concluded, followed by an approving nod from his sister.

"How’s it on the demi-front?" she asked then, eyes fixed on the road.

Marco let out a huff.

"Still nothing with Jean? Poor Cookie," she petted his hair.

"This won’t ever be a thing, Maggie. That’s the problem, I always fall for the wrong people. I don’t think he’s even _slightly_ gay." He worried on his lip.

"You don’t have to be exactly gay to like another man," Maggie chirped.

"I _know_..." Marco whined, looking through the window. Some kids were riding their bikes down the street, laughing.

"I sometimes don’t really know what to think about him anymore."

"Well, then don’t think about him," Maggie said cheekily.

"He’s sitting across my desk, I don’t know how exactly you want me to-"

"Chill, Marco, that was a joke. You also have a very compassionate grandfather, I’m sure you’ll get some Italian beauty if you ask nicely."

"I don’t fucking want _anyone_!" Marco almost yelled. Maggie rolled her eyes.

"Goddamnit, Marco, I know it’s hard but either you have to move as soon as it is still possible, or you’ll die with another broken heart. I know the thing with Nile was pretty mean, but you can’t dwell on it forever."

"Jean is my colleague, he’s my friend, do you know how awkward this would be if I tried to make a move? We share an office for about eight hours a day, I just can’t - I can’t do this."

"Oh Cookie..." Maggie sighed, "Mum wanna see babies, you know, and I actually did not intend to get pregnant very soon."

"Jean and I can’t get-" but Maggie just glared at him.

"Just give her a wedding, and she’d be happy, Marco. I’m far too young for that stuff, and you’ve been the more conventional type, anyway."

"I am gay for my best friend, I don’t know what’s so conventional about _that_."

"It would also be a big punch in Nonno’s face, y’know?"

"So and what’s your plan? How do you think should I get into Jean’s pants?"

"Well, _I_ just snogged with Louise, that was it, kinda worked, I guess."

"So Justin actually had a point."

"Justin _made_ me wanting him to have a point. I actually wanted to piss him off, that’s it."

"How _rude_ , Miss Bott," Marco laughed.

"Pissing straight boys off 2k13 is a mission to me, OK?" she cackled and slowed down their pace for the next exit.

"So, you and Louise are a thing now?" Marco asked after a while.

"Not exactly," Maggie replied, "We were just drunk and she mumbled something about 'never have tried a girl before' - after that, everything went down like normal. Never talked about it."

She pulled into the so well-known street they had played in several years ago, passing all the familiar houses until they finally halted in front of one of the row houses with a blue door and a wild front garden.

"It’s so nice to see you two!" Mrs Bott said happily as her children entered, and soon they were wrapped into a breath-taking hug and peppered with a bunch of kisses.

"I missed you, Marco, haven’t seen you in ages," the little woman muttered. She was a bit chubby, and her age showed in laughter-lines and slightly greying hair, but she was so _beautiful_ with her warm smile and bright eyes.

"Missed you too, Mum," Marco murmured and gave her a peck on her cheek.

"Now, come in, come in! Shoes as always, gotta go back to the kitchen, made some apple-pie," Mrs Bott said laughing, and vanished in the kitchen again.

Maggie and Marco removed their jackets and shoes, and followed their mother like little ducklings.

Maggie and her mother chatted about annoying men could be (Mrs Bott frequently reminded Marco that he was alright and not like most of them), and soon they began discussing relationships and break-ups, which lead to Mrs Bott asking Marco about Jean.

"Didn’t happen much, Mum, we’ll be on a field-trip together in March, but that’s it." Marco ripped off some of the lavender from the pot on the counter.

"A field-trip?" Mrs Bott eyed her son with a sly grin, "That actually sounds really promising."

"Mum, a _work_ trip. Because we’re in the same team."

"Maybe you’ll share a room," Maggie threw in and laughed.

"That doesn’t mean that we’ll share a bed, though," Marco made a grimace.

"Enough occasions to ogle Jean, dontcha lie to yourself, Marco," she teased and pinched into his cheek. Marco slapped her hand away.

"Margareta, stop teasing your brother, life is hard enough as it is!" Mrs Bott lectured her youngest child while decorating apple slices on top of the pie.

"Where do you go exactly?" their mother then asked, eyeing her son.

"The town is called Trost, pretty calm according to Eren." Marco congratulated himself on not implying that they would leave the country. He was mentally whipping away some pearls of sweat.

"Where is it? I’ve never heard of it before."

"In the South," Marco wasn’t even lying.

"Hmhm," Mrs Bott hummed, examining her artwork. Maggie looked at her brother almost startled by the fact that he didn’t come out with the entire truth. Marco glared at her and slightly shook his head, demanding her to stay silent, and she understood.

"About what are you going to report, honey?" Mrs Bott asked then.

"Police work, the hospital, stuff like that. Pretty much what we do now, actually."

***

"You do _what_?!"

Jean chewed on his lip. Tea definitely didn’t go as he had expected and he worried about the well-being of his aunt to which his parents would head afterwards.

"He’s a grown man, he knows what he does," Mr Kirschtein tried to calm down his wife.

"If he dies, I’ll never have grand-children!" she sniffled into her husband’s crook, "And you know how frequent bombs and such things go off down there!"

"Mum, I promise you, we’ll be safe, there’s a hospital with pretty good equipment, I’ll be alright."

"The best equipment won’t help you when you’re dead!" she cried.

"They hadn’t had an attack in years, Mum, we definitely will be safe!" It suddenly felt so easy to come up with positive arguments, some which he didn’t want to believe when he had held this discussion in his head.

"It’s just for a month, we’ll be home sooner than you could imagine." He paused. "People were on vacation in Egypt when the revolution took place, there isn’t any difference!"

"How can you do such a thing to my poor nerves!" his mother said in a shrill voice.

"Mum, calm down, it’s decided anyway. There are still almost three months left, so relax. I also didn’t plan on dying."

" _Jean Baptiste Kirschtein_ , I won’t allow you to go to Iraq!"

"That isn’t even my name, Mum!"

"That doesn’t matter, young man!" his mother yelled, choking back her tears. Mr Kirschtein just sat there and observed the back-and-forth between the two generations of his family.

"Harold, say something!"

Jean’s father looked a bit startled at his wife. He never had thought he’d get involved in the little fight they had.

"I think Jean’s old enough to know what he’s getting himself into," he said plainly, quite to the dislike of Mrs Kirschtein. Jean barely could suppress a chuckle.

"OK OK, you do go on your goddamn suicide trip, I got that," Mrs Kirschtein pouted.

"Thank you." Jean smiled faintly.

"But if you go, I at least want to know a bit more about your love life, and don’t you say stuff like 'got to do too much stuff for work anyway,' I know that’s a lie. Do you think I didn’t notice how Hitch’s trying to talk sense into your stubborn head for almost three years? And I don’t think it was about emigrating to Peru."

" _Fuck_ , what did she tell you?" Jean groaned, rubbing his hands over his face. Then it suddenly hit him.

"What did you tell _her_?"

"Nah, was just observing how she pulled you away every now and then - no, I’m not observing my child with spies, who do you think I am?"

Jean shrugged. Mr Kirschtein started listening only half-heartedly, his mind was busy with examining the pattern on the cushions, and soon he had wrecked a biro lying around on the coffee table.

"It’s - I don’t think there actually is something worth telling, Ma. We’re not - we’re not a _thing_ , and I don’t think we’ll ever be. That’s not - that won’t result in grandchildren anyway," Jean sighed, "not really."

"Aw, why do you say such things, Jean?" his mother patted his shoulder, "please don’t think that grandchildren are the non plus ultra. If one of you can’t get kids, I’m fine with it. You still can adopt, right?"

"But he won’t - he won’t like me _that way_ , y’know?"

"He?" Mrs Kirschtein blinked.

"Err, well, I thought, uhm, that - that wasn’t a problem, for you?" He was nervous. Incredibly nervous. Unconsciously he had started playing with his hair again, his face heating up.

"Well, it’s - it’s OK, I guess. But it’s going to be a lot more difficult. D’you know he’s - he’s into guys?"

"Kind of, I think." Jean didn’t like to talk about Marco that way. It was wrong to come out for other people, and even though he had seemed confident when he had told Jean about _that one time he had slept with a man_ , Marco didn’t tell everyone, not even close to it. He couldn’t tell his mother such things.

"Do I know him? How did you get to know each other?"

"It’s…it’s Marco. I mean, not Marco from university, he’s a douche, but - well, Marco’s working with us. That Marco."

"Oh."

That was all his mother said. _Oh_. Jean’s stomach dropped.

"You - you said he was one of your friends? He was … such a nice young man, you remember, Harold? The tall brunet who offered to bring our coats to the garderobe. And you think he’s, well, gay?"

"Mum, you know that there are so many different ways of wanting to have sex with other men, you don’t have to necessarily be gay for that. I am not, if you asked."

There was a long pause, his mother refused to look at him for that time.

"I wondered how you … how you felt with a girl. Did it feel wrong, like you weren’t yourself? I’m sorry if I pushed you into such things-"

"Mum, haven’t you listened, I’m not gay, I’m fucking bisexual. Yes, I have a crush on one of my best friends, but that doesn’t mean I won’t be with a woman if I fell in love with her. I did not lie to myself, I never thought 'God, please make this be over' - why the fuck should I? Marco happens to be a guy, so what? That does not - erase all my genuinely felt feelings for girls. I did not suffer through that to be accepted from society. There are just not many boys worth crushing on. Definitely not."

"Oh. Okay, I did not know about that."

She fell silent again.

"Listen, Mum. I’m sorry, I just - Marco’s the first man I actually seriously love, and I goddamn know I’m not really worthy. He’s too good a human, and he deserves better than me. This won’t be a thing. We will go down to Iraq next year, and keep on working together as long as possible. That’s it. I’m sorry for causing so much confusion, Mum."

"No, no Jean, it’s fine, it’s good that you told me, I’m glad you did, to be honest. I just hope you don’t let your happiness slip just because you think you’re unworthy. Those people usually deserve it more than anybody else. If he likes you back, I hope you’re not so stupid and push your luck away. I’d be glad for a son in law like him, I hope you know that."

"But he can’t be seriously happy with me, I mean it’s a miracle that he’s actually my friend. I can’t make him happy as I should. I just can’t."

"But maybe you are the one he wants? If he likes you, if he loves you, wouldn’t it be unfair to deny such a good person his happiness? Jean, you don’t need to be perfect to be lovable. Maybe you’re the one he needs to be happy, and if you love him enough for that, don’t break his heart because of such a stupid thing. You are worthy. I think Marco can decide himself what or who can make him the happiest person alive."

Jean hadn’t notice how his mother had wrapped her arms around him. How did that happen? What did he miss? At the same time he was glad for his mother’s physical support while she was shattering his fundament in pieces. Was he selfish that he kept his desire by himself? What if Marco was internally dying because it was little good Marco who could only love with the entirety of his heart? Marco genuinely loved people, no matter what. He would still smile at the memory of the dog he met the other day, though it bit his hand. He could never stop loving, or caring.

But what if it was their friendship what Marco needed so badly? What if he loved Jean the other way, and only the other way? What if he still loved this Nile and wasn’t able to let go? He could not remember him speaking of any boy- or girlfriends before or after that. Maybe Marco dreaded to love again, and Jean was sure he’d break Marco’s heart too easily if his choice fell on him once he dared. He wasn’t even a good friend to Marco. Marco had broken down and cried, and he had no idea how to stop him, how to comfort him, how to ease the pain. Marco didn’t even talk about what was worrying his mind, not really. Sure, the whole Iraq thing put all their minds under pressure, and story with Sasha wasn’t easily coped with either - but there was more Marco didn’t dare to tell him, and he felt horrible because of that. Marco didn’t trust him.

And there he laid, tears dripping down as he was tied up in his mother’s arms. He felt like a baby. A baby who was completely unable to do anything right, who pushed people away, who couldn’t gain the trust of his best friend. He was unable to be loved because he was one big disappointment.

He tried to cool himself down a bit, he didn’t want to let his parents see him cry, but his mother probably had already felt the tense in his shoulders. She didn’t say anything though.

"You’re a good boy, Jean," Mr Kirschtein then said into the silence, "sometimes you’re a bit edgy, and goddamn sarcastic, but that’s probably my fault. We all have our quirks, I still wonder on how your mother copes with me, but she does. And I’m sure Marco can cope with you as long as you cope with him."

"Jeanbo, we love you just as you are, and the few friends you have do the same. And I don’t think Marco would care so much that you are in love with him. I’m sure he’d stay your friend nonetheless. Maybe even more." Mrs Kirschtein brushed her lips upon her son’s crown, and Jean did not know what to say.

Yes, Marco would never stop caring for him. Even when he was a jerk, even when he was unbearable, Marco never stopped caring. It would just be honest to tell him. He didn’t deserve a curtain of lies wrapping around Jean’s secrets.

"Are you alright, Jean?" Mr Kirschtein asked as Jean pulled himself out of his mother’s embrace. The young man nodded numbly, whipping away some of the stray tears left.

"‘s OK, Dad," he muttered and stood up, "I still have some cookies, d’you want some?"

Mrs Kirschtein nodded fondly, and he vanished in the kitchen.

Obviously, his parents had a better idea of Marco than he had, Jean thought, and this was an uncomfortable feeling.

***

"When are you telling Mum that you won’t just go a bit South in the direction of Plymouth but actually leave the country? You know she needs some time to prepare herself," Maggie glared at him while doing the dishes.

"I will today, probably. At Christmas would be shitty, I know that. Maybe she’s just googling Trost and will find a town down in Iraq?" Marco’s chuckle wasn’t real, and he cursed his sister for knowing him too well.

"You fucking know she’s not. She doesn’t deserve this. She might lose her son, y’know, so give her the time she needs." Her words became softer, more careful. He saw worry in her rich brown eyes. She was his baby-sister, this was never supposed to happen.

"How do you think I should tell her? I can’t say 'well I’m going down to Iraq in less than three months, yipeeyahyey!' That won’t work."

"Genius," Maggie sighed and smacked his forehead with her hand dripping from the dishwater. "Tell her about how you love your job, and how eager you are for a promotion or some nonsense like that, and that this trip is actually to bloody Iraq and that it’s so important and every good journalist does this. For fuck’s sake, it ain’t _that_ hard."

Marco dried another plate and fell silent.

"You’re a fucking moron sometimes, Marco."

He wasn’t sure if that sounded a bit affectionate, but it still stung. Yes, he knew that, he was such an incredible idiot and only caused pain wherever he walked. He cared too much for people who didn’t care about him, and the ones who cared were filled up with lies about him that they won’t find himself. What was wrong with him.

"I’m sorry." He felt how his eyes began to heat up. _Oh please don’t let me cry again, not now, not here._

"Don’t be sorry," his sister murmured, "I should. I know it’s fucking hard, who am I kidding." And she actually sniffed. "It’s just, you’re my brother, you’ve always been there, I always could talk to you, and I don’t know how I can cope with this family if you’re not there. There’s Dad yelling at me to get my shit together, Mum who’s always worried, and those fucking Italians - I just, I need you. You’re just there and don’t judge."

She was crying, and faster than Marco had anticipated their arms were wrapped around each other, and they held themselves together that they won’t break apart.

"Don’t fucking go. Don’t leave me. Please."

"You’re talking as though I’d go down there to die," Marco tried to laugh but it wasn’t more than a choke because tears tied up his throat.

"You might. And this is enough, Marco, this is enough."

"I know you’re my baby-sister, and you’ll probably stay that forever, at least to me. But you’re grown up, you’re far braver than me, I mean I would never dare to yell at Nonno, and you just do it. You can do it. You’ve got friends who love you. And I love you to pieces, my little baby-sister. I will never stop loving you. I’ll always be there for you, I promise."

"Don’t promise things you cannot keep," Maggie sobbed into his shoulder.

"But I can. I’ll be there with you forever."

"You’re the only friend I could keep, I’m just not good with other people. I don’t know what to do without you."

"You’ll figure it out, Maggie, you’ll figure it out."

Maggie faintly nodded against his chest.

"Please come back."

"I will come back, Maggie, I’ll always come back, you know that."

"Don’t pull any fucking stunts, Cookie."

"I promise I won’t."

"I know, it was always me with the broken legs," Maggie somewhat chuckled into his jumper.

"Yes."

Maggie’s laugh was infectious, and soon they were hiccuping into each other’s arms with pearls of laughter in between.

***

Jean’s parents left early since they needed to catch their train, and so Jean was left alone in his flat which suddenly felt so empty and forlorn. He did not know how long he simply stood there, arms wrapped around himself, just staring out of the window.

He would meet his lawyer next week, he reckoned. He did not like the thought of maybe dying there; it was strange, it was foreign, and probably pretty lonely. He didn’t want to die lonely. If he thought about it properly, there was only one way he wanted to die at this very moment: as an old, very old man, and Marco beside him, holding his hand until he fell asleep and his heart beat no more.

 _This is utopic_ , he told himself, _this will never happen_. And a pit in his stomach knew he was right.

***

"Mum, I wasn’t quite honest with you," Marco started after inhaling sharply.

Mrs Bott’s fork fell on her plate.

"What is it, honey?" She already looked concerned, alert, ready to rush over to her son and wrapping him into her motherly arms.

"I … you know I will go to Trost in March and will report from there."

His mother nodded.

"Trost is not in England, Ma." Another sharp breath.

"Aha," Mrs Bott frowned.

Marco glanced shortly at his sister who bit into her cheek, then back to his mother’s direction.

"It’s in Iraq."

The living room fell silent.

Marco didn’t dare to look at Mrs Bott directly, he stole some glances from his sister who seemed to check on either of them and worked as some kind of a dictionary.

"And … you really want to do this, Marco?" His mother’s voice was feeble, a bit broken.

Marco nodded as an answer.

"OK, good, fine," she cleared her throat, "d’you want any potatoes? There’re still some left."

"No, thanks, I still have." Marco was thankful that she didn’t insist on him arguing his case. But this cool acceptance was odd, even for her.

Soon, Maggie became centre of their mother’s attention due to the fact that she reenacted the break-up scene with Justin. It was hilarious, and their mother laughed genuinely.

 

The night Marco was spending on an air-bed on Maggie’s floor because it was too late to drive down to London that night, and he seriously didn’t want to. The few boxes Maggie had dragged with them had been pretty heavy, full of books and whatnot, so they laid exhausted under their blankets and stared at the ceiling.

"Y’know, the thing with Justin is, or actually with anyone, I never get down to a personal level. That’s why I fuck up," Maggie whispered into the silence.

"I fuck up because I don’t dare to get physical, or think that others would do with me," Marco sighed in exchange, and he saw Maggie smile in the faint street light.

"We kinda got what the other’s missing. Ain’t such a good deal, huh?"

"Maybe, if Mum and Dad had another child, the kid would be perfect for relationships," Marco laughed.

"Or completely useless."

"Yeah, right."

They fell silent again.

"So," Maggie approached after a while, "how’s it with Jean going? Apart from 'nothing at all'? Anything exciting happened?"

"I-I don’t know. He just … a few days ago I stayed over, we had so much wine, you know how easily that gets me, and I just … I felt so close. I was so close to just kiss him, several times that day, even before the whole wine, and I just … I sometimes just feel like crying. Because, there he is, just in front of me, and he’s so nice, and he does those things, and I sometimes - I don’t know if he knows what he does. If he does this on purpose, just to tease me, y’know? And he can act so goddamn sexy, and then he’s such an idiot, such a moron, and does all those dorky things and blushes so cutely, and then - and then he says something like 'go talk to the cutie Petra from the cafeteria' and I - I-" Marco couldn’t breathe anymore. It all was poured out of his mind accompanied with some miserable sobs, and Marco’s chest felt tight, so tight. Those moments increased lately and he couldn’t deal with it anymore.

"It’s OK, Marco. Just - just breathe. Deep down into your stomach and count to five, alright?"

Marco nodded and tried to calm down. The heat in his eyes and his cheeks didn’t vanish though.

"I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what to feel, I mean, is he straight, is he bi? I don’t know, and all the things he does - but, I mean who would love someone like me? I’m just - I’m just a loser, I’ve always been, I’ve been this weird nerd kid who’s just too stupid to notice how he ends up with all the project work, I have a bloody button nose, which man has a fucking button nose? And those freckles, I look like I’m a child and I’m twenty-eight."

"Gosh, Marco," Maggie groaned, "you remember Francis? The little girl with braces I hang out with in ninth grade? She had an older sister, d’you know how fucking drooling she was when you met at any school festivities back then? You look ridiculously good, sorry to say that, but you do. I think Sasha can attest to that."

Marco let out some undefinable noise.

"And as far as I remember, Jean’s pretty lanky and only can dream of your ex-swimmer abs." Marco already could hear her big, fat grin.

"Besides, you’re a gentleman. A real one, not one of those pretentious 'nice guys' who will whine when they get rejected like it was the girl’s fault. You genuinely care, and that’s precious. But maybe sometimes, you gotta take what you want, or at least go as far as you can. Tell Jean. That’s all you can do at the moment."

"But who seriously would like me, Maggie, I mean who? To Nile, I was nothing more but a joke, I-"

"Fuck, Marco, you do know that Jean’s definitely different than _Nile_? Nile barely knew you, but Jean’s your friend, I mean hell, the last time I saw the two of you together he was staring at you as though you were like the eighth wonder of the world, he adores you, if not as a man, then at least as a friend, and I’m fucking sure he won’t let you slip away so easily."

"You swear far too much, Maggie," Marco snorted, "you almost sound like Jean already."

"Oh, fuck, boy go ‘n sleep, for fuck’s sake. But Marco?"

"Yes?"

"He’s got a sweet arse, you should be quick if you asked me."

"Gonna save this for later reference," the man chuckled, and soon, they fell asleep with a smile on their lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haven't exactly planned the third chapter yet, but they definitely go on the flight then ~  
> You don't know how excited I am :S
> 
> Also, yeah kudos and comments are highly appreciated! If you've got something to improve, don't hit around the bush, I love to get constructive criticism!  
> Alrighty, I hope I get the next update somewhere in February <3


	3. What You're Worth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tears stream down your face  
> I promise you I will learn from my mistakes  
> \- _Fix You_ by Coldplay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A FEW months later than actually anticipated, here is the third chapter. I'm sorry that it took so long.

Jean didn’t like the night.

Not like this.

Not as a New Year’s Eve with who knows what the hell would await them the following months. It was the night of new beginnings, though they were not really real. It was a forced ending, didn’t really feel like the new year was ready for it, and neither was the old one to die. But there he was, on his way to a New Year’s party at Eren’s, the ugliest night of all surrounding him with the first hollow cracks of firework echoing through the streets.

New Year’s resolutions had never worked, another reason why this night was so pathetic. They so desperately wanted it to mean _something_ , something important like change, though it simply was not, however much artificial lights and noise were made.

Solstice was even before Christmas. Spring wasn’t before March, though the industry made their best to change that. There was nothing glorious about 31stof December.

Maybe he wanted to hold on to the old year because he still needed to grow up; he had realised it way too late, but maybe his cold, clammy hands could make it stay, could prevent it, save it from dying. Maybe he wanted to get so shit-faced that he couldn’t remember his own name any more, that he just could look at the stars and sigh on what a beautiful night it was, that he didn’t care any more if Marco thought he was desperate or weird or whatever it was Marco’d think about a kiss from Jean’s lips.

New Year’s Eve was a desperate night, at first it was too slow and then too fast, always leaving Jean with an uncomfortable emptiness, as though there wasn’t a life to live any more.

 

With a feeling of numbness he was greeted by Eren, a familiar scent lingering in the latter’s clothes, eyes rimmed with red.

“Did you smoke pot, Eren?” Jean asked, a bit bitter about the fact that he didn’t get informed because this was just what he needed.

“Yes, me am,” Eren grinned back, giggling like a small child, “Just you wait until you see Marco-baby.”

With a pat on Jean’s shoulder, he guided him into the living room where Marco laid with eyes closed, his limbs stretched out as far as possible, with a smug grin on his lips.

“Fuck me if that is Jean Kirschtein,” he sniggered, and Jean rolled his eyes.

“Do you still have some?” Jean turned to Eren.

“Nope,” Marco replied instead, “Sasha took it away, mean potato.”

The pout looked ridiculous but Eren simply grinned and leaned into Jean’s crook, his breath tickling in his neck as he whispered, “I saved it, it’s on the balcony.”

“Oh thank God, I can’t deal with this shit tonight.”

He wasn’t even there for five minutes and he knew it’d be a hell of a night.

 

He was tired of a lot of things if he had been honest, and the smoke calmed him, the strange storm inside his mind that actually was none. He stood alone on the balcony, the night already wrapping entirely around the houses, some windows enlightened in a warm shine, and it was peaceful. Sasha and Connie were whirling around in the kitchen, the rattles of pots and pans and whatnot coming from the slightly opened window, accompanied by laughter and angry shouts.

 _This was what life was about_ , Jean thought, and somehow, he felt alone. It was not about his friends, he knew that he wasn’t lonely in that sense, and his mother had been warning him since forever not to die lonely that everyone forgot who he was at the point of his death. No, that wasn’t what he meant. _Inside_ , he was lonely, strangely lonely, and he didn’t know why. Maybe because he did not know how to deal with what might come to them in the future. He didn’t even know if he still was scared as he was a few months prior. Maybe he was, but he couldn’t feel the fear any more, maybe he was used to it after such a long time.

Another drag.

He was lonely inside himself, maybe that was what scared him most. He didn’t like that. He used to be an open book to nearly anyone whom he met, but at some point he had begun closing himself, more and more, and it felt numb.

It wasn’t about secrets, it wasn’t about sharing his fears with anyone, because Eren and Marco knew a big deal. Either on their own part, but put together it was definitely his entity.

Maybe it was this numbness surrounding his feelings, his emotions what made it feel lonely, so alone. It was quite a big number of maybes, he mused. _Maybe_.

“Hey.”

Jean turned around. It was Connie with a few tomato spots on his shirt.

“Hi,” Jean replied, staring again out into the night.

“Dinner’s ready in a few minutes, hopefully Marco won’t set the kitchen on fire in his state.”

Jean chuckled at that, imagining the reactions of Marco to a sizzling pan or something like that.

“Yeah, thanks for the info. I’ll be ready in a minute or so.”

“Can I have some?” Connie leaned against the handrail, his eyes wandering off into the distance.

Jean shrugged.

“Sure, why not,” he muttered, handing Connie the smoke, and everything felt nice around him. They stayed silent for a while, and largely thought about nothing until Connie inhaled to say something.

“Got an offer as well,” he muttered and drew on the joint, pausing.

“Yes?” Jean asked and looked at the old chestnut in the backyard. It must’ve been real old.

“Yup,” Connie said, no real emotion swinging with his tone, “maybe I’ll go to the World Cup next year. International Sports, y’know, not the entire province shit around here.”

Jean chuckled at that and reached for the weed in the other’s hand.

“Brazil is a big thing, huh?” he grinned at Connie.

“Pretty much,” the shorter man confirmed with an ironic snicker, “what ‘bout you? You’re together with Marco, right?”

“Y-yes?” Jean frowned. That was weird, how did Connie have to ask about this?

“Eren is with us, too,” he added, staring at his hands.

“So the three of you, ha?” Connie smiled.

“Yes, we three down in fucking hell. That’s gonna be fun,” Jean said a bit bitter. No weed in the world made it any easier to look at it as some fun time.

“Where you goin’?”

Jean froze.

_How much did Marco actually tell them?_

“Trost, kinda close to Syrian border, though surprisingly calm for Iraq to be honest.” From the corner of his eye Jean could see how Connie’s face faltered.

“This bastard.” Connie’s voice was high-pitched, a little faint, broken. “This little fucking bastard.”

“Huh?”

A little pause.

“This bloody bastard didn’t say a thing, the fuck did he think by that?”

Jean looked at Connie, and he saw tears pooling in his eyes, his body shaking with tension.

“Maybe he had his reasons, dunno,” Jean drew again, maybe to calm himself a little, “it’s Marco, he never tells a thing.” _Never_. He knew Marco bottled up pretty much everything, and it didn’t do him any good, as it didn’t do any good to any other person on this goddamn planet, but the people did it anyway. It was a harsh truth, but a truth nonetheless. Eren sometimes said it made him bitter, but he didn’t care. He didn’t know if bitterness was better than anger, or sadness, but it was what suited him. Somehow, everyone had to cope, and they bottled up everything until they broke down, freaked out, cried as though there was no hope left, or didn’t care any more because everything felt numb. Somehow, everybody bottled things up. He couldn’t come up with an exception.

“Fucking lying bastard!” Connie screamed in tears, angrily punching his fist on the handrail, making the metal rattle.

“Connie wait,” Jean said calmly, almost bored before Connie could run back inside to maybe start a fist-fight. It was uncommon that Connie was the one losing his head and not Eren or Jean himself, but there he stood still, listening to the silence and what Jean was about to say.

“Marco’s probably feeling bad enough already, you don’t need to punch his guts out for that.”

“He didn’t tell a thing, Jean, and don’t you dare tell me it’s for the better ‘cuz it’s fuckin’ not,” Connie glared at him, trying to blink away the tears that ran down his face.

“I know, Con, I know,” Jean’s voice became hoarse, and he felt a certain knot tightening in his throat, “he just never knows someone cares.”

“So, shall I pretend not to care? Jean, I can’t, I can’t, he’s like a brother, that little family that’s left after all these years, I can’t _not_ care!”

Connie hadn’t spoken about the incident for years now, and Jean felt even worse.

“Just – just let him this one night be, Connie. God knows what’s up with him – with all of us. Don’t really wanna know myself when we’re back.”

Connie nodded slightly, his anger evaporating with a few draws from the joint.

“Just – why?” Connie asked, maybe more the night around them than Jean at his side, “Why doesn’t he tell us? Doesn’t trust us? What the hell is wrong with that guy?”

“I –” Jean started, but was interrupted by a yelling Eren who announced that dinner was ready. Connie put out the joint, tucking the remaining drug away carefully, and headed to the door.

“It’s Marco. There’s a lot we don’t know,” Jean said. Connie just nodded.

“Probably.”

 

Dinner was noisy, and apart from Sasha who _always_ inhaled her food, the others didn’t have any less appetite due to their drug consumption. Around ten, they started karaoke, and due to an outburst of giggles, Marco hit hardly a key. It was amusing to watch, Jean thought, with his childish laugh and softening features, faint freckles on his cheeks. For once, it seemed, he didn’t need to be an adult, and he looked so young. Too young. Without worries plaguing his soul, he was so beautiful, too beautiful for this world. The brown in his eyes was richer, his voice livelier. _Was this what happiness looked like?_ Jean mused, _Have I become too bitter to be happy?_

“Hey, Jean,” he heard Marco call from the floor, “you haven’t sung anything yet.”

“I’m awful at that,” Jean replied, not without a grin on how Marco tilted his head in his direction.

“Nah, you could voice a Disney princess, as far as I know. C’mon. One song. You can choose.”

Jean laughed at the way the man on the floor stretched out his arm to him.

“I can’t sing that high.”

“Yeah, OK, Disney _prince_. So, a love duet it is.” Marco had already scrolled through the SingStar menu and set them up for strings and a rumba rhythm before Jean could protest and suggest another song.

Marco didn’t even seem slightly bothered by the fact that he had bluntly ignored his previous offer, and Jean internally groaned as Marco had already pressed play. The few tacts of the intro were scarcely enough for the blond to grab for the second micro laying next to Sasha on the sofa, and then Marco’s voice was already slipping like velvet from his lips. _Where the fuck did the giggles go?_

“I know I stand in line until you think you have the time to spend an evening with me,” Marco sang in his half-seating, half lying position in which he actually shouldn’t hit every note, and Jean was mumbling something incomprehensible with some kind of similarity into the microphone because he missed the start.

“And if we go some place to dance, I know that there’s a chance you won’t be leaving with me.”

Eren sniggered into his beer bottle somewhere in the distance, not without earning a glare from Jean, the red dots and lines signing his tune more than out of the intended range. At least his pace was correct.

Marco shifted into a better position to sing, glancing shortly in Jean’s direction before his eyes fixed on the screen again, a sheepish grin plastered on his freckled face.

“Then afterwards we drop into a quiet little place and have a drink or two – and then I go and spoil it all by saying something stupid like I love you.”

Jean almost lost it at Marco’s ironically seductive eye-rolling, especially as _deep brown eyes lingered on him for a fraction of a second longer than necessary_. Yet the words slipped too easily from Jean’s lips, this song just too smooth and captivating, wrapping him in such a warmth, and he wished they were alone on this planet, just for once.

“I can see it in your eyes, you still despise the same old lines you heard the night before,” they sang in unison, Jean marvelling on the fact that his voice didn’t break entirely, “and though it’s just a line to you, for me it’s true and never seemed so right before.”

He caught a pair of brown eyes again, his lips quirking into a lopsided smile. This was so stupid, so so stupid.

“I practice every day to find some clever lines to say to make the meaning come true – but then I think I’ll wait until the evening gets late and I’m alone with you – The time is right, your perfume fills my head, the stars get red, and oh the night’s so blue – and then I go and spoil it all by saying something stupid like I love you.”

The instrumental part made Connie giggle, seeing as Sasha sang along happily and Marco wiggled his feet, probably resembling the basic steps of rumba, and his shoulders moving in the rhythm. It looked so dorky, so _Marco_ , but it was beautiful, and what would he give to be actually alone with him and dance, so close, how easy it would be to take Marco by surprise –

“The time is right, your perfume fills my head, the stars get red and oh the night’s so blue – and then I go and spoil it all by saying something stupid like I love you.”

Rich brown. A slightly crooked front tooth.

“I love you”

A strong jaw. A soft face. Stars painted on skin.

“I love you”

A tingling laughter. This glint behind his eyes.

“I love you”

A heart that was used to carry everything alone.

“I love you”

How could he not?

“ _I love you._ ”

 

_Breathe._

The nicotine filled his lungs, and ironically it felt like the first breath after drowning. The cool December air calmed him down additionally, only a few minutes of the old year were left.

_How pathetic._

Marco had handed down his micro to Connie and got himself something to drink, and Jean needed thinking.

Actually, musing was horrible. He always tended to blame himself for more than he possibly could be responsible, but the night was fresh, making him feel less like dying in every moment.

He loved his mother, right?

And she showered him in affection every time they saw each other, called each other. And yet he was unable to show affection. He loved her, and he didn’t know how to explain it, how to express it properly. Maybe because he knew how awful it was if you stepped on someone’s borders. He just wasn’t made for loving, maybe. He wasn’t made for _being loved_ , that was probably more to it. He was just desperate, his love nothing more than a desperate New Year’s Eve which tried to mean something while it didn’t. _A handbook would be useful_ , he mused, staring up at the sky, clouds framing the otherwise so clear night.

Stars always made him feel so small. Which he actually was, compared to those giant fire balls. _Look at how small you are_ , they whispered, _another year passed, and soon you’ll be dead, but none of this will matter in the big picture. Just so small._

“Hey.”

Jean hadn’t realised that Marco had come outside.

“Hey,” Jean replied with an exhale of smoke.

“Just wondered where you’re being,” the brunet murmured sheepishly, his big eyes roaming over the balcony.

“Just here. Needed some time alone.”

“I’m sorry, I’ll leave if you want.”

“No. It’s all right. I don’t mind.”

Marco nodded, coming closer, resting his lower arms on the handrail.

“Smoking again, huh?” He nodded at the cigarette in Jean’s hand, an apologetic smile on his lips.

“Yeah, kind of.” Jean took another draw. “Thought it was cool not to since my uncle died, but fuck this. I don’t care. My granddad was ninety-seven and smoked like a chimney. Got a problem with that?”

“No, I just wondered. Haven’t seen you with one for years. That’s all.”

Jean let drop a bit of the ash, staring into nothingness again.

“It’s midnight soon,” Marco noted.

“Yeah. Some resolutions yet?”

“Not really. I gave them up since I was fifteen.”

“Don’t even know who came up with this shit. As though this would change people. Didn’t make me do more sports, as far as I remember.”

Marco snorted at that.

“Thirty seconds!” Sasha yelled, and Marco glanced shortly inside as though asking whether they wanted to stay.

“It’s gonna be loud out here.”

“Yeah, I know. Should join the others, then.”

None of them moved.

_Ten._

_Nine._

_Eight._

_Seven._

_Six._

_Five._

_Four._

_Three._

_Two._

_One._

“Happy New Year, Jean.” And there were lips against his.

 

 _No. This wasn’t right._ There was a strong taste of alcohol as Jean jerked away, taking a while to unfold because of the shallow taste of smoke still lingering in his mouth.

“Why did you do this?”

Marco was still so close, and there were his eyes, so scared, _this couldn’t possibly be –_

“W-well, it’s just a new year’s kiss, that’s what friends do if they don’t – don’t have someone else.”

Fireworks flew up to the night sky, exploding in red and green stars, people cheering.

He was so far away, so far away so suddenly, and what –

– _don’t have someone else._

This stung.

This was just a friend’s service. Nothing more. How did Jean even get the _idea_ that there might ever be anything. _That’s what friends do._

_No, this is not what friends do._

“How did you get the idea there was no-one,” Jean bit back, his eyes fierce behind what he hoped weren’t tears.

“Y-you never said –”

“Well now you know.”

Why was he like this, why didn’t he just shut up, why did he leave Marco there alone outside, confused, _scared_ , why didn’t he run back and crush their lips together, _that’s what friends do._

The hypocrite night.

_Right._

He blinked away a tear and left the balcony, the others greeting him with cheers and “Happy New Year”s.

 

_Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid._

Marco hitched a breath, the cold winter air hostile in his lungs. _How did you get the idea there was no-one._

He was horrible. _But he never said – but he does._

_What am I for a horrible friend._

Marco’s chest was deflating, he couldn’t remember the last time he felt so tiny, so _illegitimately existing_ that he just wanted to shrink in himself and disappear.

The faint note of smoke still lingered on his lips where they had touched just too briefly, tears like ice piercing into his skin. He could feel his head start spinning, this hole in his chest sucking him deeper inside, hands desperately clinging onto the handrail. _Don’t faint, don’t faint, don’t –_

But the tears kept him alive. It was a pain that he didn’t want to feel, but he needed it. Better than numb, better than nothing, _better than the proof that there had never been, that he had never felt anything._

A proof that he was capable of loving. Still. He would walk seven hells to know he still could love. How could he not. Wasn’t this what living was about, in the end?

Pain was the proof to be alive, if the black hole inside his chest was still sucking, he couldn’t be gone entirely. Alive.

_Breathe._

 

“Marco.”

Connie sounded cold, just as cold as the night surrounding them. How long had he stayed outside?

A numbness crept into his body, his head; the pain seeping into something theoretically there but not quite. He could feel it but didn’t know where to look for.

_Was he such a horrible friend?_

Such a horrible friend that Connie was judging him.

“Marco, we need to talk.”

Marco’s head jerked up, his eyes wide and teary.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t want this to happen,” Marco began sobbing, streams running down his cheeks. He broke. Again. What happened with the world from _before_ , what had changed anyway, what was there, he couldn’t grasp it. Even trying to hug himself didn’t help him keeping himself together.

“I’m so sorry, please don’t hate me, please, I’m such a horrible friend, s-such a horrible person, I’m sorry.” What else was there to say? He had failed, massively so, why was he even on this planet any more – “I want to go home.” It was a plea of a scared child. Scared of himself.

Connie frowned – which didn’t happen too often, so it put Marco even more off – and nodded unceremoniously.

“All right.”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry –”

“I said it’s _all right_. We’ll go home.”

Marco still wasn’t used to Connie’s voice being so strict, and strained. He looked tired.

“Sasha would drive.”

Marco nodded weakly and stumbled on his feet. Maybe he had cried out the two beer and five tequila shots from earlier. Didn’t mean he wasn’t dizzy, his head wrapped in cotton wool.

He followed Connie inside where Sasha sat on the sofa with a grim expression while Eren and Jean sat on the floor, emptying a Jägermeister bottle one shot after another, going along with a drinking game Marco couldn’t grasp this fast. Eren shortly looked up with a questioning frown on his forehead as he saw Marco’s face, but Jean didn’t seem to notice either men entering, busying himself with lining up a few more shots, spilling a third of the liquid.

“Sash, I think we’ll head home now,” Connie said. The woman sighed in relief.

“All right.”

“You OK though, Marco?” Eren asked in concern. _Oh please, do we have to do this now?_

“Yeah, ‘tis OK. I’m just tired. I’m getting too old for this.”

He watched how another two shots made their way down Jean’s throat, trying to drown the events of Marco being a horrible friend in alcohol, and Marco flinched. Jean ignored his feeble good-bye, only shrugged when Connie asked if they’d see each other the following week, forced a smile on his face as Sasha dishevelled his hair as a farewell. Marco felt as empty and grim as Jean looked, and with a shy wave at Eren he stumbled out to gather remaining hats, scarves, and shoes.

The cold night air cleared his lungs from the sticky feeling inside, gave his head a pause, but again he was too soon caught in a cage he had rather escaped. Sasha sat in the driver’s seat, her eyes looking tiredly at the street uncurling in front of them. Connie sat in the back, leaning his head against the cool glass of the car window, Marco mirroring his pose on the passenger seat. Crying made him tired, that was nothing new.

The vibrations of the vehicle against his face were keeping him awake in some way, despite preferring to fall into a dreamless slumber this instant. It was the first time they hadn’t stayed at Eren’s on a night like this, it was the first time Jean didn’t look at him when they parted, and the worst thing was that Marco had been the reason, and he alone. The guilt was nagging at him, and apart from being a giant jerk to Jean, the cold, piercing glares from Connie unsettled him even more. Had Jean told him? How much did he know?

“So, what’s up with you, lately?” Connie pressed through gritted teeth. Marco sighed, closing his eyes.

“I’m – I don’t know, I just – I always fuck everything up.” He secretly wondered how long it would take until he’d break down in tears again.

“Yes, massively so!” Connie now hissed, earning a scandalized shriek from Sasha.

“Connie!” She stopped abrupt.

“Oh c’mon Sasha, you know it’s true!”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” the brunet woman now glared at the man angrily.

“He’ll be going to Iraq, that’s wrong!” Connie paused for second to calm down his shaking body. Marco groaned inaudibly, forehead pressed against the car glass to ease his headache. “And when did he want to tell us? Did you want to tell us the day you leave? When you’re already in the plane? _When you’re fucking dead lying somewhere in million pieces on a dusty road?_ ”

“What?” Sasha now looked confused at Marco, her voice high-pitched and breathy.

“I’m sorry.” Marco didn’t want to see the others stare at him any longer, planting his entire face against the window. His eyebrows furrowed.

“ _No_ , Marco, you’re not, you did this on purpose, why the hell didn’t you tell us?” Connie shouted at him. That was the moment when Marco snapped.

“Don’t tell me how I feel, you have no fucking idea how it is, Connie!” Marco spit back, sitting straight in his seat again, glaring at them. “I planned to tell you about a month ago, but every time when I wanted to tell you, there was always something more important because you two just can’t shut up about your life for a minute! There’s always something with the babies, or a match, or the school, and you’re happy talking about that, or already busy enough as it is with a lot going on in your mind!” He could feel his throat tightening again, heat building up in his eyes. “Apart from breakfast, when have we actually been together the last time, huh? And I’m not talking about watching TV with Reiner or some shit like that. I’m talking about the three of us. Alone. With nothing else going on. Would it have been better if I told you ‘by the way, I’ll be in Iraq in March’ while going down to do the laundry?”

Connie was staring back at him, his expression unreadable.

“The heck, I know I’m a horrible friend! I know that, you don’t have to constantly remind me!”

“Marco we goddamn care for you, how is that so difficult to grasp?” Sasha now threw at him, her expression more sour than before as she started the car again.

“What do you expect from me?” He felt like a cornered animal, desperately trying to fend off the predators that were his friends.

“Trust us!”

“That has nothing to do with trust! I didn’t even quite know whether or not I’d go in November, so why is it so difficult to grasp that I needed more time? Whenever I rush things, they end up horrible, but thanks to whoever told you before I, they fucked it up for me. They can go and fuck themselves.” Marco fumed and stared into the dark street surrounding them, hating the wetness in his eyes.

“It was Jean,” Connie said dryly. Marco looked up.

“Oh, yeah. So we’re equal, kind of.” He hated the tone in his voice, it sounded so hollow, not like him. Betrayal. Betrayal wherever he looked.

“He was surprised that you, in fact, hadn’t told us yet.”

“And what am I supposed to do now?” he spit out tearily. Oh how he hated it, hated hated hated it.

“Grow some balls the next time.”

Marco felt his chest deflating again, sinking into himself – if there was any of him left, that was. It stung. It stung so terribly and he wanted to rip off his skin.

He leaned his head against the glass again, curling into a ball as well as he could with the security belt tying him to the seat. His tears looked almost like raindrops on the window, but he didn’t care. He only felt this uncomfortable wetness on his skin, cool in the winter night.

 

The car was silent again, with Marco weeping next to Sasha, and Connie sulking in the back, only the engine and the wheels on the road audible. Sasha didn’t know if she was exactly mad or angry at Marco. No.

She wasn’t. Sad, maybe. But yes, Connie was right, it hurt to know that he didn’t trust them enough. Because what else had it been? If he had trusted them to cope with it, to be capable to shoulder his weight as well apart from all the other things they had to mind – where would they be now?

There was a lot that Sasha hated, but Marco wasn’t one of them, even if her silence might have made him think so. Maybe the feeling of hurt seemed very prominent that night, and Sasha wondered what actually happened on the balcony apart from “this is all so fucked up.” She wondered, now that it was too late. Now, where “quickly fixing it” wouldn’t do it any more. She actually hadn’t really cared at that point, just wanting to leave, wanting to go home, away from all the dunk-heads with their pot. Because her friends didn’t think a minute about alcohol-free champagne. Because Eren had the brilliant idea to smoke weed when she was around, and not later when it was just him and the boys. Because she was pregnant from a man who dumped her as soon as he knew. Because she was _that pregnant woman_. She would be a single mum, however she tossed and turned it. She didn’t want to be alone. Not with two children. Two, not one, right from the start. _And nobody cared._

Sasha blinked away a tear as she parked the car at the side-walk, shutting down the engine with a sigh. Yes, she had her own shit to deal with, and she barely talked about how scared she actually was.

Connie was the first to leave the car, slamming the door shut, the loud noise making Marco jump out of his slight doze, eyes still red. They unbuckled their belts in silence, and also silence it was that surrounded them as they climbed up the stairs to their floor. Connie was already inside, violently removing his shoes and coat and storming into his room.

“He doesn’t mean it like that,” she whispered as Marco jumped again at the slamming door. He looked like a panicking deer. Marco just shrugged, trying not to sniffle too much.

The new year was numbing, making him realise how wrong everything was. How wrong _he_ was, period. With a hoarse voice he wished Sasha a good night and vanished in his room to just sleep, sleep and cry his eyes out, with nobody watching his self-loathing.

 

Jean’s head felt almost numb from the intoxication, the buzz and heat making him forget almost everything. _Almost_ everything.

“No, Jean, that’s enough,” Eren said as though he was talking to a small child who had too many biscuits. Jean pouted as Eren was snatching his shot glass out of his hand and downed it himself. The other glasses were already empty, and so was the third bottle of whatever liquor Eren had left.

“Not fair!” Jean sulked, torn between his childish drunk behaviour and endless bitterness for his own life.

“Here. Drink that. And fucking eat.”

The other man placed a plate with sandwiches and a bottle of water on the floor, and got rid of the empty vessels. Jean didn’t know for how long he stared at the sandwich, determining how sick he actually felt and how much better two slices of bread would make the sour feeling in his stomach. Under the glare of Eren’s green eyes, Jean took a bite, even though every movement made the world around him blur. His tongue felt like a weird, furry _something_ in his mouth, almost as though he should be choking on it but he didn’t. He didn’t know if the sandwich tasted like anything, but after a few gulps from the water bottle, he was glad he ate the sandwich first.

“And now tell me what’s fucking wrong with you.” Eren was one of the few people whose glare made Jean crumble, so he tried to evade those piercing eyes, wondering what Eren did to make them look this green _holy fuck –_

“Jean!”

What felt like a way too quick movement was actually just Jean slowly rising his head to look at that angry face above him and blinking at Eren owlishly.

“Marco is shitty,” he muttered, lowering his head again in submission.

“But you like him,” Eren replied.

“I l-love him,” Jean slurred between a sudden outburst of sobs. The pain in his chest had returned, drilling its way through the numbness that had wrapped him in soft ignorance for the longest time. _The kiss_ – why had Marco even done this? _That’s what friends do_ , the other man repeated in Jean’s head.

“What has Marco done.”

It wasn’t a question. Eren’s voice didn’t rise by the end of the sentence, and it was so cool that Jean felt a shiver down his spine. Eren was angry _– was he angry? Did Jean do something wrong, did – Marco did something wrong._

“Nothin’.” Jean knew it would be ridiculous to blame Marco for the turmoil of feelings _because how should Marco know about his feelings oh how stupid – but Marco just wanted to be friends – stupid –_

“So Marco likes to cry outside on the balcony – alone? Making you drink a fuckton of _whatever_ until you nearly pass out?”

“H-hey! It’s Christm– New Yer’s and I can get as drunk as I f’ckin’ please.”

Eren just glared at him.

“Marco’s cryin’ all the time anyway,” Jean muttered under his breath with a sneer. It wasn’t even a lie. He had heard Marco cry on the toilet two days before Christmas. “Who fuckin’ knows what’s up wi’im.”

“I don’t.”

Jean shrugged, his brain a bit floating again. Eren helped him up and guided him to the toilet, and Jean was glad that the alcohol decided to use only one way out and he didn’t need to puke. After Eren had set up some kind of bedding on the couch, he cleaned up the biggest parts of his party, and Jean was alone again.

The room seemed big in the loneliness that wrapped itself around him, and there he was, huddled into the blanket, his hand on his crotch.

_Wait, what?_

Jean’s still pretty drunk mind had way too many mood-swings for his taste, but he didn’t exactly complain. He was horny and he needed release, and if it was to one of his best friends who just had admitted that he was _just a friend_ , he didn’t exactly care. He knew how Marco’s lips felt on his.

He was too horny for heartbreaks. He was too horny for guilt.

Marco’s hands palming him instead of his, Marco’s hot breath against his skin, wavering in arousal, the tension of being close, Marco’s lips on his, shy but needy, his ridiculous button nose bumping against his cheek, trailing down his jaw, his neck, Marco placing wet kisses on his chest, his stomach, sucking gently at his abdomen that it made Jean arch from the couch. His fingers were a cheap alternative, but his drunk brain probably cared less. His hands eagerly made their way down into his pants, imagining it was Marco who licked his way down to his dick.

New Year’s was full of cheap alternatives. Cheap kisses – _who had gotten the idea of this kissing thing anyway?_ – Cheap motivation that would wear down within the next few hours. Cheap excuses. Cheap hangovers. Cheap desire. Cheap _release_.

Cheap heartbreaks.

He struggled with the rug to get up and find some tissues to clean up, with his lazy, drunk mind not an exactly easy task, but somewhere laid a napkin, unused, maybe it fell down unnoticed. He flopped back on the sofa, world spinning around him, just like the planets circled the sun.

 _The sun must be very egocentric_ , Jean thought, _as far as a giant gas ball could have any personality. But the sun also was on fucking fire._

Slowly, his eyes slipped close and Jean drifted into a dreamless slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hehehhehehehehe  
> Well, we got a kiss and an orgasm, what do you guys want more *eyebrow-waggles into the sunset*
> 
> And yes I know I said they'd be in the plane by the end of this chapter but obviously this isn't the case. Next chapter. Most definitely next chapter because I simply don't have any idea on what to write about otherwise.


	4. This Year's Apologies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last year's wishes  
> Are this year's apologies  
> Every last time I come home  
> I take my last chance  
> To burn a bridge or two  
> \- _I'm Like A Lawyer With The Way I'm Always Trying To Get You Off (Me & You)_ by Fall Out Boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very spontaneous update tbh, but I hope you'll like it though. Yeah, it had been time for another chapter, sorry for the long wait!
> 
> ((also I'm kinda cackling at this chapter's song titles because oh well it's just fob but still. It suits the whole thing, I guess))

Sasha’s breath formed tiny clouds in front of her, the cold nibbling at her ears. She had no idea how long it had been since she had stood here the last time, all alone. Her brother usually was the one who visited their mother _there_ , but not Sasha. She did talk to her when she felt like she needed some motherly advice, though.

Flowers laid on the cool, grey marble, already with a few frost-bites and dusted with a small layer of ice. Maybe one of their relatives had come by a few days earlier. Sasha’s gloved hands tightened around the pottery in her hands, the tiny cactus planted into the terracotta pot probably freezing more than herself, after all it was a subtropical plant.

“Hey, Mum,” she muttered while placing the small flower pot on the headstone as though it was a window sill. It felt odd talking aloud to a cold stone when she usually just showed it the part of her that somehow stayed in her heart. If she was honest, she never felt more detached from her mother than in this moment. “So, I’ve been thinking about names, you know.” She took a deep breath. “And also about a christening. I don’t know if that sounds hypocrite because I don’t even remember the last time I was in church.”

She wasn’t quite sure if this was the right thing to say on a graveyard, or if you say such things to a spirit that to one-hundred percent didn’t linger on said graveyard, but she had brought a cactus, so it had to be fine.

“Yeah, so … christening. Names.” She chewed on her lips. “I thought about the godparents picking a second name. I just hope Connie won’t pick something really shitty. You know how he is. And I’m pretty sure that Marco will take something with real deep meaning, so please don’t be surprised when your grandchildren are called Pepsi and Andromeda.” She had to smile. “I also don’t want to know the sex until they’re there. It’s so annoying how everybody’s asking already. I mean, there’s so much that still can go wrong, and I was so scared that I’d lose them because I started bleeding last week again, and I…” She paused. The pregnancy probably was the closest she had felt to her mother since she died. It was something they now shared, apart from their love for cactuses and the craving for Mr Braus’ food. Sasha didn’t know how often she had asked her mother about how it felt to _become a mother_ , how it felt to have a child growing in your very womb, how to bear a child. She had never gotten tired to her mother’s stories on how Sasha hindered her showering for the first few months because she refused to sleep somewhere else but on her parents’ bellies. How she had to walk upstairs and downstairs again for hours that her eldest child finally would consider leaving her womb. How her breasts suddenly became something _useful_.

A crow above her tore her back to reality.

“Uhm, so… Marco’ll go to Iraq this spring,” she then said, “and I still don’t know how I feel about that.”

She paused again.

“It’s just so weird because he’s making a testament and all those things, it’s almost how they do in the army. At least I think that is.” She hadn’t known much about her brother’s departure when he went to Afghanistan. If she was honest, she couldn’t care less. “But I mean he’s a journalist. Why should they kill a journalist? That’s ridiculous if you think about it. It just makes everything feeling like going into war, and I hate that feeling. He doesn’t go on a crusade like ... Misha.” His name weighed heavy on her lips. If there had been one decision she could never forgive her brother, then it was this.

“At least they know someone there,” she sighed. Eren had told her about his friend Armin, who worked at the Red Cross. “They also have a hospital there. But still. It’s no war they should be fighting, and yet it feels like they do.” Her breathing stuttered a little, her shaking hands readjusting the little cactus on the headstone.

“I just sometimes wonder where he’ll go afterwards. He once said he’d like to go to Tunisia, or maybe Vietnam. China – something like that.” Japan after Fukushima. Haiti. Maybe he didn’t want people to forget, she mused, more to herself, but her mother understood.

She stayed for a while afterwards, watching the birds in the surrounding trees, or how two people in dark clothes stood a few metres away, heads lowered in silence, hands folded. She wondered whether old people had and extra attire just for graveyards where they would wear their heavy black coats and weirdly furry hats that covered most of their undulated silver hair.

When her ears felt like entirely freezing, she gathered enough strength to leave her mother with those news alone. Maybe she liked the cactus at least, and it wouldn’t be removed too early because it was seen as unfitting for the place and season.

***

It was almost February, and Marco still didn’t know what to do now. He hadn’t dared to ask just yet about whom Jean had talked back then, maybe also because Jean evaded being alone with him like the plague, or punished him with endless silence. Sometimes he wondered how Eren could bear being in the same room with them.

It was a constant egg-shelling around each other, and sometimes he marvelled whether it would be wise to move on, to find his happiness in someone else. Two weeks of bottomless sadness and guilt were replaced by this numbness again, a stupor of not knowing what was right and what was wrong to feel, and if he even did feel anything at all. Everything blended in an exhausted routine, he slept early if Jean stayed longer, and sleepless nights turned into sunrises and him being the first in the office, or at a crime scene if Jean had left. Maybe they needed time, he thought.

He didn’t even know if he was rightfully hurt. Sure his heart was broken, but he couldn’t blame Jean. Maybe this was the worst. This endless spiral of guilt because he should have listened, he should have been trustworthy enough for Jean to tell him, he shouldn’t have been so selfish and assume that Jean would love him out of all people. He shouldn’t have been so selfish and kiss him. There was nothing Jean had done wrong, and he couldn’t be mad at him.

Marco sipped at his hot tea, this afternoon he was alone at home, his laptop on the dinner table with his sister on skype, obviously not very inclined in actually writing her essay.

“ _Dad called the other day,”_ she said casually, playing with a lock of her chocolate hair. Marco pulled up an eyebrow. _“Wanted to know what you were up to. I didn’t know you didn’t answer the phone.”_

He looked away, his face heating up.

“I do answer the phone. Just not – just not for him,” he mumbled, his throat tightening uncomfortably. Maggie just nodded. She never asked why.

“ _And…what are you up to, at the moment?”_ she then asked after a short pause. Marco just shrugged.

“Finished an article about police brutality today.”

“ _No, I mean, what are_ you _up to. I didn’t hear an awful joke from you in weeks. What twisted your wand, Marco? Were the big kids mean again?”_

Marco scuffed at her teasing.

“How do you handle life?” he whined, his voice muffled by his arms.

“ _You don’t, Marco. That’s rule number one: Life handles you.”_

Marco chuckled at her raised finger.

“What a wise sister I have.” He grinned.

“ _Yeah, that’s true. Such an old soul.”_ She pointed her tongue at him. _“But why so mope-y, Cookie, you aren’t usually like that.”_

Marco sighed. He was on the brick to tell her that he didn’t want to talk about it, but then again … she deserved to know.

“I kissed him.” His eyebrows were pulled up in a frown. He could only read confusion in his sister’s face.

“ _Didn’t go that well, huh?”_ She now mirrored his expression, her head tilted slightly to her right.

“He… he has someone else.” Marco nibbled on his lip, eyes cast to the ground. He still had to wrap his mind around that thought, and he didn’t know if it would make him feel better if Jean was happy with them. What that meant for him, he didn’t know.

“ _Are you… are you sure?”_ Maggie asked, nothing but worry in her eyes. Of course she wanted to know if he was OK with it. Of course she saw he was not.

“Yes, _of course_ I am sure!” Marco snapped, and immediately regretted it.

“ _Did you meet them?”_ She had become so cautiously so sudden.

“No, I mean he didn’t say who, I …” Marco felt the tears pooling in his eyes, his voice awkwardly stretched, more like a pressed, gurgling noise in his ears.

“I don’t know how I should feel.”

“ _Hey, it’s okay, Marco.”_

“No, it is not okay! It hurts! It fucking hurts every time! Why did I ever get the idea that somebody–” Marco cried but Maggie cut him off.

“ _Wow, wait Marco, seriously? You, out of all people, think that nobody loves you? You’re probably the most love-worthy person I know, Jesus Christ.”_

“But why does nobody love me back?” It was hard to breathe. “If I’m– If I’m such a love-worthy person, why does nobody love me? They never do, and you know it!”

“ _Marco, you simply haven’t found the right one for you!”_

“The right one? Maggie, _the right one_? It’s nice to know that you at least can live in this fairy-tale world, because I can’t! I’m so tired of this, Maggie. I’m tired of looking.”

“ _You aren’t even thirty, Marco.”_

“Do you think that matters? I had a total of – zero relationships, and I don’t want this any more.”

“ _Relationships don’t define your worth as a person.”_

“But I _want_ one!” Marco yelled desperately, his hands fisting into his fringe. “I _want_ to wake up next to someone who loves me, I want to be the reason that they’re happy, I want to –” He stopped himself. “I’m so selfish.”

There was pure sadness on Maggie’s face.

“ _Marco, I … I don’t think that – A relationship alone doesn’t make you happy, you know. And there are other things that might be more important this – once.”_ She swallowed. _“A relationship doesn’t mean you’ll have the perfect life, then. You_ will _fight, Marco, and I know that this will probably break your heart even more than all these rejections have. Maybe it’s for the best, Marco.”_

Her voice sounded odd, strained, but maybe it just had been the connection playing a trick on him.

“He doesn’t even know,” Marco whined..

“ _What?”_

“Jean, he doesn’t – I didn’t – I…”

“ _You didn’t even tell him?”_ Maggie’s eyebrows almost jumped into her hairline.

“I–I wanted to but I was so scared and then he did tell me about _someone else_ and I –” Marco didn’t know why he was shaking. He wasn’t even crying any more, but he felt his head getting hot and dizzy, blood rushing into his scalp, his vision darkening at the edges.

“ _It’s – it’s OK, Marco, just deep breaths, you look really pale, brother.”_

Marco just had a tired smile for her.

“ _Are you all right, Marco?”_

A timid nod.

“ _Do you … are you planning on telling him, though?”_

A shrug.

“ _It would be fair to tell him. I mean you’re friends. Friends need to trust each other.”_

 _So Jean didn’t trust me because he knew something was off._ Another nod.

“I – I will. Eventually.” In the end.

 

Maybe it was to get some kind of closure to the whole affair that Marco actually intended to eventually tell Jean, and tell him properly – not through weird riddles and awkward karaoke lyrics. This at least was his plan for February, one month before they were around each other 24/7 with no real time to breathe, to process what had happened between them, and to decide what that made them. And then there _was_ Jean in his car on a Saturday morning, driving them to a police press conference alone with no-one to interrupt or to eavesdrop, and Marco lost his courage. He numbly stared out of the front shield, Jean to his right, gripping the stirring wheel way too tight that his knuckles turned white. He didn’t know what to say, and he hated that. However, Jean worrying on his lip was at least … irritating.

“Jean … Jean, you alright?” Marco shyly tilted his head to face the other man beside him.

“I… It’s OK. Just – Just thinking, that’s all.” Jean bit on his lip again, glances shortly cast to his right, evading. Marco squinted, only to frown in the next second.

“Listen, it’s OK, we still can talk, can’t we?” He hated how hoarse his voice sounded, too crisp for what he intended, too rough for Jean’s edginess. Jean’s quirk around his mouth was ... nervous.

“See, Jean, I’m sorry if I hurt you, I didn’t mean it. I mean you can still hold a grudge against me, and you’re probably perfectly right to do so, but…” Marco tried to carefully measure his words. “I… I miss talking to you. I miss _you_. Maybe that’s selfish but … I want my friend back.”

Jean’s eyes immediately left him as soon as Marco looked at him again, a silent nod acknowledged his plea, and a bobbing throat reminded Marco that it was hard to swallow, not easily forgotten.

“I’m sorry, Jean,” he said as softly as possible, not sure whether he’d ever deserve forgiveness, “I’m really sorry.” He stared out of the window again.

“It’s OK.”

Marco looked up. If he had thought his voice was raspy, then Jean’s was dry and cracked like desert’s ground, unable to grow anything that wasn’t too stubborn to survive.

“But it obviously is _not_ OK.”

“I… What do you want, Marco.”

“I–” Marco stopped. He knew he had gone too far. He had abused their established friendship and now got the bill for it. “I want to be your friend again, because you’re important to me. I want to apologise. I – I don’t know, I just hate the idea that we go to Iraq and don’t even talk to each other because of … me.”

“Friends.” The thin line of Jean’s mouth threw Marco off. But then again – a nod. “We’re there.”

He hadn’t noticed that they stood in front of the well-known building, three lions on the coat of arms.

“OK. Five murders and a suicide, drugs included.”

***

_I love you I love you I love you_

Marco nearly crumpled the paper in front of him, he got barely enough air to breathe. His chest was imploding, leaving his body almost senseless, his mind swimming in the not-yet cried tears. He needed to hold on to something, anything, that he wouldn’t fall into this hole, this pitch-black nothingness that coated him in anxiety.

He wanted to scream but his throat didn’t make a sound, he felt sick but his stomach refused to throw up. He tasted blood.

Marco was biting his cheeks again, the flesh raw and drawing blood, making him feel sicker than before, but it kept him from the abyss that was calling for him, luring him, grabbing, tearing on his limbs that he would loosen his hold. It kept the shivers at bay, the cold sweat, the numbness which was at the same time the worst pain of all.

He would hate himself later for it, he knew he would. Yet he kept on biting, the burn a relief, his fingers smoothing over his arms, feeling, breathing, his lungs full with oxygen, dizziness catching his brain. Was this coping?

He didn’t know.

He tried to swallow the blood, stop biting, but the flesh was burning, hurting in a good way, the taste lingering on his tongue too intriguing.

Jean had left him alone in the office only a few moments ago, not knowing what a mess he had become since then. He was alone, only the screens of their monitors siring, white, deafening noise in his ears, and the pitch-black hole in his heart.

He always fell in love with the wrong people. That was nothing new, the pain was nothing new, but he wondered whether he ever would get used to it.

The worst probably was that there was no one else to blame but him.

“Hey Marco.” A raspy voice tore him out of his thoughts. Jean had returned, his eyes fixating the brunet, his eyebrows in a frown. “You look white as a sheet, are you okay?”

 _No, not at all_ , was what Marco should have answered, but he just shrugged, casting his eyes down at his desk, at the notes in his hands.

“Levi said we should go later and get the tickets.” _This explains his raspy voice_ , Marco thought.

“Yes, sure.” He took a breath. “Have you seen my edits somewhere? I can’t find them anym–”

Jean smirked, sliding a paper over to him, Marco’s eyes widening to the size of dinner plates.

“–more. You’ve had it the whole time?”

“I even typed them for you.”

“O-oh. Yeah. Okay. I’ll send it in – just now.” His cheeks turned pink. Jesus Christ, this was some middle school level of crush, why why _why_ was his heart so easily manipulated, he wanted to forget, and out of all things – he didn’t came a single step closer to his aim.

He sent in the e-mail to the editorial department, sighing as he pressed the send button.

“Marco, are you really okay? Maybe you should see a doctor with your circulatory,” Jean said, still staring at him with a critical look. “At least see someone to check on you, if it should be something serious–”

“Jean, I’m OK, there is nothing wrong with me, it’s just a lot at the moment with Connie being gone most of the time, I don’t even know, I’m just perfectly healthy, but thank you for your care.”

He didn’t need to tell him that his heart basically threw somersaults because of this, but then again there was this sting that it wasn’t meant like that. He had someone else. They weren’t meant to be. He should move on. It just would become harder with time.

***

They went to Levi’s office in silence. They weren’t OK with whatever was wavering in the air, that Eren could tell. He walked slowly behind them, worrying on his lip, watching how Jean’s stiff frame tried too hard not to be drawn to the man beside him, and it was painful to see how Marco flinched whenever he felt eyes on him. It was a weird numbness that surrounded them, that ironically was full of unresolved tension, a taste lingering on Eren’s lips that he knew shouldn’t be there. There was a lot that made everything feel wrong and just so right again, the promise of long blond hair danced through his vision, and his heart took a leap. No, whatever the fuck Jean was too dumb to do, he wouldn’t rain on his parade. _Not this time._

“Eren. EREN.”

He had spaced out again, now he stood in Levi’s office, the short man waving with a collection of sheets in front of his face. Eren snatched the flight tickets out of Levi Ackerman’s hands and pierced his lower lip with his canines, cheeks tinting pink as far as his skin tone allowed.

“Here’s also a list of contacts that might be helpful for you three.” He handed them another sheet that Marco took and looked up quickly before handing it to the other two. “I added some without Erwin’s knowledge. He wouldn’t consider them as helpful, seeing as they’re far from official or reliable, but that’s not what you’re here for,” Levi added with what Eren believed was a wink.

“Anything else?” Jean asked, furrowing his brows.

“Don’t let anyone see this list. Literally no one else. Use prepaid phones if you contact them, and under no circumstances meet with them if you have the slightest impression that you’re somehow observed or whatever the shit there is. These people are highly in danger if the wrong people find out their location. Don’t pull any stunts, don’t walk alone, and – most importantly – trust no one. The war on information is tough and you’re about to throw yourselves into its battlefield.”

“We’re journalists, no soldiers,” Marco piped up. His voice had nothing of his usually brighter undertones. This was unsettling.

“Do you think they give a fuck about this?” Levi snapped, glaring coldly at the so much taller man, “Contacting the wrong people at the wrong time under the wrong conditions will be the sure death of you. It’s already hard enough not to die in friendly fire, so at least pay attention to this. And, _don’t trust anyone_ , but I think everyone of you has learned this lesson already.”

A barely audible sigh from Jean was his answer, to which Marco and Eren turned their glances to the floor.

“So we just triple-check our sources, or what?” Eren said teasingly, knowing fairly well that this wasn’t what Levi meant. The latter proved this point with an eye-roll.

“You won’t be safe from some people even when you’ll come back. I’m not talking about terrorists, but the whole mechanism behind it. There are people who are simply not interested in a publication you might offer. Be careful when you’re poking around for information.”

“What about the ‘world-changing journalism’ with ‘incredible revelations’? Are we not allowed to do that anymore?” Eren’s playful grin got swiped away by another glare from the small man.

“Not officially, no.” Eren wasn’t sure if he spotted a faint smile on Levi’s lips. “You’ve already contacted your translator, didn’t you?” Eren nodded shortly and eyed the tickets in his hands a bit more closely. “Then you’re dismissed. Erwin might send you something via mail the next few days, semi-important shit if you ask me but he insisted upon this. Well then, brats, shoo, I’ve got work to do.”

In the end they were lucky they didn’t literally get kicked out of his office. Marco somehow had returned out of his stupor he was in for the last few minutes, and Jean got back into his default ‘coolness’ with his ugly scowl, uneasiness and tension slowly melting away.

 

“Where you going tonight?”

Jean tore Eren out of his procedure of wrapping things up and organizing the multitude of hard-drives and SD cards littering his desk.

“Home. Why?”

A shrug was his answer. “I dunno… I just – I need –” Jean sighed deeply. “Maybe we could go get some drinks or something.” The scratching over his undercut and the downcast eyes made Eren nod. Alcohol loosened up his tongue after all.

“Okay… But when I say stop it, you stop it. No more drinks for you, and you go home.” Eren pierced him down with his eyes, he really didn’t fancy putting up with Jean’s shit again.

“Yes, _Mum_.” Even with Jean’s sarcastic eye-roll Eren knew it was the best, probably for the both of them, to make up rules, at least for the moment.

Sooner than Eren actually wanted they sat in Jean’s beat-up car and listened to old music from Jean’s ‘punk’ phase. Eren wasn’t sure if that meant anything, but Jean was too weirdly positive and almost hyper-active behind the steering-wheel that it wasn’t hard to tell that there was something _massively_ wrong with him. There couldn’t not be something wrong.

After the bad sing-along to the third-or-so Nirvana song from the blond, Eren snapped and pushed the music to pause, making Jean almost drive into the car in front of them out of shock.

“Okay, what’s up, what are you trying to tell me with – _this_.” Eren gestured at nothing and everything around him.

“I – I don’t,” Jean muttered perplex, but Eren just snorted.

“Fucking bullshit. You’re acting weird. C’mon, you’ll feel better after telling me. That’s what you wanted to do anyway.”

Jean just sheepishly looked out of the window and shrugged.

“Everything’s just … weird lately.” Jean closed his eyes for a second. “No, wait.”

The U-turn Jean pulled made even Eren claw his hands into the seat cushions in fear of his life. Sooner than he recognized, they stood in front of Jean’s flat, the taller man so nervous and on edge that Eren barely could watch. He almost let his keys drop like a 15-year-old with his very first date, and Eren was on the brick to snap the keys out of his hands and let them in himself. When Jean finally had nestled enough with the lock that the door sprung open, his shoulders relaxed a bit from the eager tension.

“Okay, so, you wanna know what’s wrong with me? You know what?” Jean didn’t even wait for them to remove their jackets and shoes, instead he took large steps to his living room. It almost sounded as though Jean wanted to start a fight, as pumped up he was bouncing around, the harsh movements of his pacing disrupting Eren’s mind. “Marco – fuck Marco.”

“So it _is_ about Marco,” Eren said with a stoic face. Of course. Because there’s nothing more important than Jean Kirschtein’s fucked up love life. It wasn’t about getting the jitters because of their job because Levi asked them to basically x-ray the puppet masters of terrorism, no, it was just about how Jean Kirschtein was too stupid to… _Yeah, to what, actually?_

“Yes,” Jean whined, turning on his heel and letting himself fall on the couch. Eren leaned casually against the door frame with crossed arms. If he sat down next to Jean, this would become a _very_ long night.

“Did he say something?”

Jean just hid his face in his palms.

“Did _you_ say something?”

Jean’s fingers now dived into his blond hair.

“Is this still about New Year’s?” Eren couldn’t hide the sneer, even if he wanted to. Jean’s whine sounded pathetic, so he definitely had found a nerve. “What even _happened_ on New Year’s?”

Jean’s legs began to jitter awkwardly.

“Look, Jean, I can’t help you in the slightest if you don’t tell me anything. I’m also kind of tired of this whole guessing game and how you apparently aren’t able to make a move on him and Jesus, it’s not that hard.” Eren just managed to bite back the thing with Armin. This was not the place for this. He was about to turn Jean his back and leave as Jean muttered,

“Friends.”

“Huh?” Eren looked at him confused. Jean’s eyes were wide, rimmed with red as though he was about to cry.

“H-he wants to be friends – stay friends – how could I?”

“Did he say so?”

“Yes, God, Eren, do you really think I make this up? I mean, he kissed me but that doesn’t mean anything, right? This is not… this is not some primary school bullshit. Kisses don’t mean anything when you’re drunk on New Year’s Eve.”

Eren didn’t know what to say. He just blankly stared at Jean, trying to process what utter _bullshit_ he just heard.

“Are you – are you serious?”

“Of fucking course I am!” Jean looked pissed, apparently seeing his authority questioned. “He kissed me, said he was sorry and that he wants to be friends. That’s it, that’s what happened, and if you can’t remember, Marco was fucking hammered that night.”

Eren wished he could ram his head against the wall.

“Jean, seriously?” he groaned. How was he even friends with this giant idiot.

“What?”

“I… I’m amazed. Amazed by how much the fuck is wrong with you, Jean Kirschtein. Why the fuck didn’t you tell him about -- you know?” Eren waved his hands in need for words. “This would’ve been a good occasion, maybe perfect even, you probably could’ve gotten friends with benefits out of this, and now you’re whining about this to _me_?”

Jean’s expression was somewhere between horribly desperate and extraordinarily pissed.

“I’m sorry, Mr Suicide-Commando, that I actually care about the feelings of my friends!”

“Oh, do you?!” Eren was so close to throwing a punch. “If you’re such a great friend, then why did you refuse to talk to an emotionally labile Marco for weeks?”

“I was pissed! Just pissed! Because why do you kiss someone and then say ‘sorry, I actually just wanna be friends, oops’?”

“Can’t you think of a reason?” Eren roared, tears in his eyes. Jean just stared back. Eren sometimes wished he hadn’t been this blunt, didn’t make this mistake, but he did. Marco didn’t. That was, if he didn’t just get very friendly with people when drunk. And then there was this boy who took everything too lightly, sometimes too heavy, and Eren didn’t know why it angered him so much that Jean didn’t get that life was short and full of regret. “You owe Marco an honest answer,” he said then, calmly, “Honesty is what keeps us two alive, Jean. This is not about Marco, about Marco behaving weird. This is about you, and you alone. If you really love him, you must be able to let him go. What would be worse, the risk that you can’t be more than friends, that he even might leave you, or the regret of never telling him?” With these words Eren turned on his heel and walked out of Jean’s flat.

The cold air greeted him harshly, the tears on his cheeks biting into his skin like sharp canines. _No regret._

No regret, but a harsh feeling of loneliness settling in his chest. Was it so wrong of Jean not to want this? Would it even be a healthy relationship – wouldn’t it be more like Marco trying to cater to his feelings, because this was what Marco would do in the end?

Armin had always been different. _Always._

The way to the subway wasn’t spectacular, just cold in the unpleasant way. Eren wasn’t made for this. He needed heat. He needed the burn on his skin, dust on his lips. _Thirst._

Maybe it had always been in his nature that a burning throat was just as sweet as swallowing the first gulps of the freshest water. Water they told about in legends, nothing he ever tasted before, nothing he ever will. _And yet…_

Was he even still hoping? Was he, truly?

Eren didn’t know. He got so used to his thirst that he didn’t even notice it anymore. He wetted his lips with his tongue, a mistake in the unforgiving February air, but he didn’t care. It was a torture he was willing to suffer through. Maybe he was scared of, if ever tasting the magical water, it wouldn’t fill him with happiness but ruthless neutrality. Maybe he should be happy. Maybe he should be thankful. Yes, maybe.

Maybe Jean should stop being an asshole and tell Marco what was up with him that he won’t need to edge around him so anxiously. There was a lot of maybes in his head.

The sub rattled monotonously on its rails, and Eren’s mind wandered back to what Levi had said. He was a far cry from being tired.

***

Marco stared on his laptop screen, almost hypnotized by the words he had read.

_Chief witness Farlan Church, murdered 1998, half a day before he and his sister-in-law Isabel Magnolia could testify against the Ackerman cartel. The bodies have been found five years later rotting in a ditch in Syria. The suspected head of the cartel, Kenny Ackerman, was proven innocent._

Marco stared at the paper in his hands. He squinted, thought it a trick of his tired eyes. No. He didn’t know how often he had switched between his reading glasses and being without them. This couldn’t be true.

“Marcoo?” Sasha suddenly cooed through his closed door, and he froze. Jumpily he grabbed for the next best notebook he could reach, folded the paper messily that it would fit.

“Y-yes?” he said as he slammed the book close and went to another tab on his browser. Sasha entered with a basket full of freshly washed laundry and dumped on his bed.

“Here, you forgot to take it with you earlier.”

“Oh, sorry. I’ll try to be better next time.” He smiled at her apologetically, and Sasha left with a shrug. When Marco made sure the door was safely closed again, he pulled his mobile out of his pocket. He dialled the number with a racing heart. As his call got answered, he took a deep breath.

“Levi. How can it be that Farlan Church and Isabel Magnolia are on your contact list for Iraq?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LIED TO YOU AGAIN THEY'RE STILL IN LONDON I'M AFRAID THEY WILL NEVER TAKE OFF OH GOD  
> ((also I'm sorry I fucked up I accidentally had the chapter copied in there twice, I already wondered why the wordcount was THAT high, I just didn't double-check)) ((now it's how it should be, though, thanks to everyone who noticed because I did not))


	5. Drawing Voices Deep From You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Walking out into the dark  
> Cutting out a different path  
> Lead by your beating heart
> 
> All the people of the town  
> Cast their eyes right to the ground  
> In matters of the heart
> 
> The night is all you had  
> You ran into the night from all you had  
> Found yourself a path upon the ground  
> You ran into the night, you can’t be found  
> \- _Laura Palmer_ by Bastille

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a very short chapter, but I finally kept my promise, so I hope you'll like it ^u^

Big halls.

If anyone asked Eren how to describe an airport, it always was big halls. Many, too many people. Nothing smelled as much as business as an airport. If he was honest, airports were the combination of hospitals and train stations. Everything was too big or too small, too clean or too dirty, long waits on edge – a life between heaven and earth, an in-between world. Surreal.

It wasn’t as magical as such worlds always sounded. They were in-between, untrue but still real. A façade, just a cover before you left to other places. The realest thing a non-real thing could become.

And there he walked, in this unreal place with unreal people and unreal destinations, in an unreal time. Everything, everyone was washing away, curling around him in this endless stream of busy people, and he felt stuck. Jean next to him dragged along with his big suitcase, even looking smart that day, as though he had somewhere to belong, someone to look good for, a place to fit.

Eren almost snapped at him as Jean pulled out his phone once again although he just had pocketed it. It was unnerving, Jean was unnerving, why did he fit into this busy waiting so well, this was no place a human should fit.

“Where the hell is Marco, Jesus Christ,” Jean muttered after another seven looks on his phone screen, and looked up, searching for the other man.

“He’s gonna be there, don’t panic,” Eren just muttered, almost lost in the noise of trolley wheels and clacking heels.

“I don’t panic, he’s just never late and it’s suspicious–”

Eren snorted at that.

Just when Jean lifted his phone to his ear to actually call Marco, they saw how the latter, surrounded by a crowd of women, walked happily in their direction, chattering with the people and apparently someone on his phone, bags dangling from almost every limb he possessed.

“Calling him seems a little impossible at the moment, Jean,” Eren snickered and earned himself an elbow between his ribs.

Marco waved at them with a wide smile, and the closer the small crowd came, the clearer it was who actually surrounded him. Two of them looked far too similar to him, so it definitely had to be his sister and mother, and they soon also recognised the chestnut ponytail and the blond knot.

“I didn’t know Annie would come as well,” Jean breathed.

“Well yes, she said she’d go anyway to get her own tickets for vacation. She and Reiner go on a trip, apparently.”

“Oh. Well, that’s some news, I didn’t know about that, Reiner kept very quiet about that. Has he even mentioned it at all?” Jean worried on his lip.

“Once or twice, not really. I think they wanted to go to India or something like that. He didn’t even say for how long. Just that they …leave in a week or two, I can’t really remember. It’s been some time since I saw Reiner anyway.”

“Really?”

“Yes, last time was… I don’t know, a month ago, or something? He talked to the imam about something, they apparently have a lot of acquaintances I wasn’t aware of. Said hi to Mikasa and I, weird small-talk he usually doesn’t do, then talked about travelling. What’s up with that?”

Jean just shrugged and then greeted Marco and the women surrounding him.

“Hey you two!” Marco beamed and tried to awkwardly hug them which became almost impossible due to his luggage and the phone still on his ear. Sasha hugged them as well, not without ruffling their hair that Jean was too vain not to style it back into his perfected look of dishevelment. Mrs Bodt had her warm smile with her, Eren had only seen her once or twice on Marco’s birthdays, she had cut her hair a bit differently since last summer. Maggie waved at him happily, apparently just as nervous and excited as her older brother, and Annie just stood there in her usual bored manner and looked disinterested.

“I hope you’ll have a pleasant journey,” Maggie addressed him, her brother still too busy talking on the phone.

“Oh yeah, hope so too. We’ll have quite a road-trip in front of us, almost a day or s–”

“Here Eren, Mikasa for you,” interrupted Marco with an outstretched hand.

“Ah so that’s who you’ve been talking to all the time,” Jean teased. Eren couldn’t suppress a whine.

“But we just had a horribly long goodbye scene at home,” he said, vividly remembering how big his lunch package actually was and how many things he had to unpack again because his luggage would have been too heavy. Yet he took the mobile and sighed into the speaker. “Yes?”

“ _Eren,”_ Mikasa’s cool-yet-somehow-warm voice said on the other end of the line, _“Did you unpack your green jumper?”_

“N-no, I didn’t?” Eren was confused. It was his favourite, it was a miracle he didn’t choose to wear it that day, so why would she get the idea he would unpack it again?”

“ _Good,”_ she replied, _“farewell, Eren. Good luck with your story. Take some good photos, yes? Armin will be happy to see you again.”_

“Yes, yes I know.” Eren gulped. This giddy feeling arose in his stomach again, this was nothing good, yet nothing to unlearn. _Don’t think about it._

“ _Take care. Mind the jumper. Goodbye, Eren.”_

“Goodb–”

She hung up.

Eren stared dumbly at the phone in his hand. _Mind the jumper?_

“Here.” He handed back the mobile, and Marco pocketed it with a grin.

“Surprisingly short under your conditions,” Jean laughed. Even though Mikasa didn’t talk much, their phone calls usually lasted for at least ten minutes. It probably was Mikasa’s way of pampering him, even if he didn’t like it much. Just like a teenager and his mother. Yeah, just like that.

How ironic.

“We already had the other stuff this morning, nothing I would want to repeat on the phone, thank you.” Eren tried to glare at Jean as annoyed as he could. He really was glad that Mikasa had to go to work and actually took it seriously and did not have her day off that day. It was hard enough as it already was.

“Guess we gonna hand in the luggage, huh?” Marco butted in to save them from a fistfight. Eren just nodded, and they left the small crowd alone with an apologetic smile.

Everything went without much conversation, almost unspectacular if he was honest, but oh well. He still was nervous when he left his luggage alone. Every time.

The rest felt like in trance, lots of discussions until they would have to leave for the security controls, lots of bickering and teasing, Eren didn’t even know how many times he was hugged and kissed, as though he belonged to the family. Maybe he actually did.

He just found himself in a tight embrace, wrapped into the arms of Maggie Bodt, when she suddenly was shaking, pressing her face into his crook, lashes wet.

“Take care of him,” the young woman whispered. And there was something that they both were sensing, something that Eren couldn’t ignore, something making his voice raspy and hoarse.

“Sure do.” What else was there to say. Mrs Bodt still wasn’t done with hugging Marco and pressing kisses on whichever speck of skin she could reach in his face. “Sure do.”

Maggie nodded, her curls brushing against his cheeks, and they felt so lost.

 

There was a lot that Sasha wanted to ask, and even more she wanted to tell. But somehow it didn’t feel right, it maybe never would. There was warmth when she said her goodbye to Eren, and a horrible silence with Jean, even though he seemed at ease, just as Marco. Maybe it should have been suspicious but she couldn’t care less. It wasn’t pretend, that she knew. Maybe they got down to business. Maybe.

She hoped that it was true.

 

“ _But you will come back, Marco. I know it.” She almost felt too shaky to drive, the road too crowded but still too empty._

“ _I will come back. We’ll find a bigger flat and raise the kids together. You’re gonna be a wonderful mum, and I sure as hell will watch you be one. We gonna go through everything together. As always.”_

 

_Pinky promise._

 

He would never leave her alone, he never had. So why should it be different this time, and still she knew, she knew.

Something was bound to happen, and Marco just bluntly ignored it.

 

“Goodbye!”

“See you when you’re back.”

“I love you, my baby. My little boy.”

“I love you.”

“We will miss you!”

“We’ll talk when you arrived. Take care.”

“Stay safe!”

_Farewell._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I repeat, Marco keeps his promises, whichever way he needs to take.
> 
> Kill me, I'm a horrible human being. ((Also I triple-checked that I don't double-post it haha))

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading! I appreciate feedback very much, so please tell me what was good, what's bad etc.etc. (you also can yell at me for being horrible, I fully approve of this because it's basically true - you'll see later)
> 
> My [tumblr](http://inkykinky.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/inky_thoughts)


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